


Brothers in Arms

by TasteTheRainbow



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-01
Updated: 2012-01-01
Packaged: 2017-11-03 10:33:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 40,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/380426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TasteTheRainbow/pseuds/TasteTheRainbow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The life of an outlaw biker is the only one Jensen has ever known or wanted. A new baby, an old love, and history better left buried will force him to re-evaluate his priorities.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brothers in Arms

**Author's Note:**

> Loosely, and sometimes not-so-loosely, based on FX's _Sons of Anarchy_.
> 
> Dividers drawn by maichan.

  


  


Staring down the barrel of a gun can have one of two effects on a man: 1.) He re-evaluates his priorities or 2.) He strengthens his resolve. Jensen's done both and can't say that he particularly likes either.

Fortunately for him, Chris' gun is pointed at some other sad sap's forehead right now.

“I asked you a simple question,” Chris grits through clenched teeth, his voice dangerously low and scraping from his throat. “Where are my guns?”

With his own piece in hand, Jensen holds steady at Chris' shoulder, glaring at the guy across from him, hoping to hell he doesn't have to follow Chris' lead here. Oh, he'll shoot the guy if he has to, but he'd rather not have to if it can be avoided. Some of the guys are a little trigger happy; Jensen's always preferred to settle his arguments with his own two hands.

“I count six guns right here,” some idiot in the other crew says.

Jensen hears Chris growl and he rolls his eyes, huffing a put-out sigh as he raises his gun to take aim at his own opponent. “You really think crackin' jokes is a good idea right now?” he asks. “Listen, fellas, my brother here is a little jumpy, so unless you wanna scrape your fearless leader's brain off this concrete, somebody better tell him where our goddamn guns are.”

When Jeff mentioned dealing with these jokers, The Bandits, Jensen tried to tell him it was a bad idea. It doesn't matter that their Irish connection has fallen deathly silent as of late or that the Russians aren't coming through as big as Jeff would like. The Bandits won't say where they acquire their product and they sell it for a jacked up price because they know Jeff's club, the Brothers in Arms, have no other options right now.

The problem is that they flake on their deliveries more often than not and, this time, Jeff has another buyer lined up for this shipment. He sent half the club to make sure that The Bandits cough up every last piece in this order and right now, they seem to think that two-thirds equals a full shipment.

After another tense beat, the man on the shit end of Chris' barrel blinks and re-evaluates his priorities. “Get the rest,” he orders his crew.

Three guys in the back return to the truck and haul another three cases over to the waiting van, where Misha and Demore open each one and check their contents. When Misha says, “They're all here,” Chris, Jensen, and Tommy lower their guns and Mike steps forward to hand the leader a fat envelope of cash.

Mike's never been good at letting sleeping dogs lie, though, so he lifts his gun just high enough to score a perfect hit to the kneecap of the guy to his left. “Next time, I aim higher,” he cackles as though he's just told the funniest joke in the world.

“Shit,” Tommy cringes, grabbing Jensen's arm as he backs up toward the van.

Jensen follows suit, eyes fixed on the Bandits in case one of them takes Mike's statement as an excuse to start a real fight. They look angry, but if dirty looks were enough to hurt them, the Brothers would have disappeared a long time ago.

Chris waits until Demore is peeling out of the old, abandoned lot to smack Mike in the back of his tattooed head. “What the hell is wrong with you, idiot?”

“I was sendin' a message,” Mike defends, flinching away from Chris' hand.

Rolling his eyes, Jensen relaxes into his seat beside Misha and tucks his gun into the back of his jeans.

“You alright?” Misha asks.

“Yeah. Why?”

With a shrug, Misha pulls a cigarette from his pocket and lights it before offering the pack to Jensen. When Jensen declines, Misha exhales and says, “You got a lot on your plate right now. Just checkin' in.”

Jensen's only response is a pat to Misha's thigh before he rolls his head to watch the West Texas scenery speeding past the window. Misha's right, Jensen does have a lot going on right now, but that's no different than any other day. Long ago, before his dad died and his mom disappeared, Jensen's father taught him that there's a price to pay for freedom.

_Remember, son, that only those who are willing to fight for their freedom deserve to have it. You wanna live your life by your rules, you gotta be willing to do whatever it takes to make that shit happen._

He's forgotten a lot about them in the last seventeen years, but the club helps keep the important memories alive. Sure, Jensen's been through some shit, but who hasn't? He doesn't mind paying the dues to keep his family and their lifestyle alive.

 

 

Phone calls in the middle of the night aren't exactly foreign. A brother needs bail posted, a job opportunity opens up, a cute little thing in town's drunk and looking for a little comfort. None of it surprises him anymore. At thirty, Jensen's pretty much seen it all.

“Hello?” he answers groggily when his cell starts to ring on the bedside table, pushing the guy who was supposed to leave hours ago off of his chest. “What? I can't. Sam, slow down. I can't hear you.”

Sam barely takes a breath before she says, “Get your lazy ass down here. It's time,” and disconnects the call.

Shaking the cobwebs loose, Jensen rubs the sleep from his eyes. “Alright, get out,” he orders the guy who doesn't bother putting up a fight as he stumbles out of the bed and starts gathering his clothes.

Dressed and able to stand upright, Jensen locks the door to his room at the clubhouse and heads toward the garage, dialing his phone as he goes. When the gravelly voice answers on the other end, he says, “C'mon. It's time.”

Chris clears his throat and croaks out, “That can't be right.” Jensen's already grabbing his helmet from the back of his bike when Chris adds, “It's not s'posed to be goin' down 'til June, Jensen.”

Astride the sleek metal and chrome of his Harley, Jensen freezes. “Goddamit,” he bites off the curse. Now that his head is clearing, he knows Chris is right. “I'm goin' now. If you don't show, I might kill her with my own two hands,” he warns.

“I'll be there,” Chris promises without a second's hesitation.

Jensen hangs up before Chris can finish the sentence. His hands are shaking too hard to gun the engine as reality crashes in on his head. This was all wrong from day one. He can't afford regrets, but if he had the savings, this would be the first item on the bill.

Still, if Jensen has learned anything in his relatively short life, it's that a man takes responsibility for his actions and he doesn't turn his back on his family. It doesn't matter how fucked up this whole thing is; it's on his doorstep now, so it gets dealt with as quickly and cleanly as possible.

 

 

The hospital reeks of sterility and an order that makes Jensen flat uncomfortable. He's not opposed to cleanliness, but there's too much death in the midst of it here and he'd rather be anywhere else.

Sam greets him in the waiting room, Tommy and Chris already flanking her on both sides. “Smart move, callin' in the cavalry,” she says with the smallest hint of a smile, her arms outstretched as she steps up to him.

“I'm not gonna cause a scene,” Jensen promises against the side of her neck, inhaling the almost-too-strong scent of her familiar perfume.

“I might,” Sam winks when Jensen finally pulls away.

As far as Jensen can tell, she's not kidding. “What happened?” It's the first time he's asked that question without actually wanting an answer in a long time. He's afraid he already knows it.

“I went over there to check on her. She was on the kitchen floor, needle still stickin' out of her damn arm. Stupid bitch,” Sam explains, venom dripping from every syllable of her words.

Jensen appreciates the way Sam is willing to take the girls that mean something to her boys under her maternal wing. She protects and guides them through the club, educates them on the code and what it means to stand at a Brother's side, shows them how to tend to wounds and offer comfort and support. He pities the soul, though, who forgets that Sam Smith-Morgan's loyalty will first and always lie with her husband, Jeff, and their boys.

“Dammit.” Jensen takes a step back and tears his hands through his sleep-mangled hair. “She told me she was doin' better.”

“When'd you see her last?” Tommy asks.

Jensen squints as he considers. “Two weeks? Maybe three?”

“Was she wearin' a sweatshirt?” Off of Jensen's blank stare, Chris rolls his eyes. “She's got about a mile and a half of fresh track laid all up and down her arms, man.”

Jensen's not blind and he's not stupid. He's also not great at seeing what he doesn't want to, even if it's screaming directly into his face.

Instead of answering Chris, Jensen turns back to Sam. “She still alive?”

“For now.” Jensen's eyes ask the follow-up and Sam answers with, “Your son is breathing, but the doctor won't tell me more since I'm not family.”

Bristling, Jensen inhales deeply through his nose and releases it slowly through his mouth, fists balling at his sides. “Where's the doctor?”

The words hang in the air for only a fraction of a second before the answer comes at his back.

“Hey, Jensen.”

His breath catches in his throat as he turns, bracing himself against memories not nearly long enough buried.

Jared looks worlds different than he did at eighteen, though the glint of amusement – or maybe it's trouble – is still clear in his eyes. He's taller, broader, older, cleaner than the kid who drove out of town twelve years ago, but he's still Jared.

“You're my kid's doctor?” The bravado comes easy after years of practice. “Well, ain't that some shit.”

Eyes darting for a fraction of a second to the brigade over Jensen's shoulder, Jared focuses quickly on Jensen and shakes his head. “I'm not his doctor. Just a surgical resident they called in for this because of the -” he cuts himself off and takes a deep breath, “-because of the severity of the situation.”

Opening his mouth to shout that he's aware of the severity, Jensen snaps it shut again when he feels Sam's hand on his arm. It's hard to keep quiet, but he promised he wasn't going to cause a scene and he's sure Jared would just love the satisfaction of kicking his ass out of here.

“He's set for surgery in an hour. We're going to do our best to repair his kidneys and, if he survives that one, we'll schedule the one to patch up a small hole in his heart. In the meantime, we're going to hope the steroids we're giving him to develop his lungs do their job and we're going to pray for a miracle.” His look is pointed when he tells Jensen, “I suggest you do the same.”

Rolling his shoulders in a way that feels forced, Jensen says, “I'm not really the prayin' kind, Jared.”

Jared is neither surprised nor intimidated by Jensen's response. “Do you want to see your son? I can only let his parents in for now.”

Jensen's pretty sure he can hear Tommy's knuckles crack from just over his shoulder but he holds up a hand to call his dogs off and nods. “Lead the way.”

Jared looks over Jensen's shoulder again before turning without a word.

They make it down the hall and around the corner before Jensen says, “You coulda told Sam what was up, ya know? She was goin' out of her mind back there.”

“Can't give specific information to anyone outside of the patient's immediate family,” Jared explains with a bit more detached indifference, than Jensen appreciates.

“She's his grandmother!”

“Not according to the law, Jensen. Blood's still all that matters when it comes to confidentiality.”

Jensen stops short, hands on his hips. “That woman has had more of my blood on her hands than anyone. You know that. She _is_ my blood.” To be honest, he doesn't know why he's even fighting about something that's already over and done. Maybe it's just easier than thinking about the shit that actually matters.

Jared looks him straight in the eye when he says, “I know.” _I know how many fights you've been in. I know how long your rap sheet is. I know how you screamed like a baby when Sam pulled a bullet from your ass when we were seventeen. I know all about you and I still don't approve._

The rest of the walk to the NICU is silent, save for the beeping of machines and the occasional low grumble of a television in a few of the rooms as they pass.

Outside the broad, double doors, Jared stops and grabs Jensen's arm. “This isn't going to be easy.”

“Nothin' ever is.”

In a life full of rough circumstances and bad decisions, nothing has ever prepared Jensen for stepping into a darkened room to lay eyes on his own son for the first time. On his stomach, barely longer than the palm of Jensen's hand against the glass of the incubator, fine hairs shining along his back under the glow of the heat lamp, Jensen can't help thinking he's never seen anything more strange and amazing.

There's a tube in his nose, another taped to his foot, but his back is rising and falling steadily. Even with the aid of the machines, it's the most comforting thing about this moment.

“I've seen a lotta scary shit, ya know? Ain't never been scared like this.” The words don't even sound like his own in this room.

For the first time, Jared's gaze turns soft and familiar. “I'm gonna take good care of him.”

“I know you will.”

The history between them doesn't matter. There are only a few people in this world that Jensen trusts with his own life and the ones that are even more important to him. Regardless of past history, Jensen's instincts say that Jared is still one of those people.

“I'm gonna go see where we are on the surgery, give you a few minutes.”

Jensen nods his thanks, eyes transfixed on the case beneath his fingers. He barely looks human, this tiny alien, barely more than translucent skin and brittle bones. Jensen has been dreading this day for months, scared of what it means, how it will change everything. Now he can't imagine not being here. Logic says not to get too attached – Jensen's probably all out of those miracles Jared was talking about before – but emotion too long held back and bottled away is too strong to fight.

This little guy, struggling for his life against a shit ton of obstacles that have nothing to do with him, is Jensen's son. Jensen is a father now. For as long as the kid's here, he's family and Jensen will do everything he can to make sure he's safe and happy and as comfortable as he possibly can be.

 

 

“You should go get some sleep.”

Jensen jerks awake, his neck popping and straining as he moves on the stiff, vinyl couch in the NICU waiting room. The sun is flooding in golden streams through the window, sweltering and far more optimistic than Jensen is feeling.

Sam curls into the space beside him and tucks her legs up under her body as she lays her head against Jensen's shoulder. “First surgery went well. Jared wants to let him rest, monitor him before they try to tackle any of the other problems.”

“He told you that?”

“Yeah.” She drags one finger along Jensen's cheekbone and then drops a soft kiss in the same spot. “Nothin' more that you can do here.”

His eyes feel gritty as he blinks away the remnants of sleep. “Danni awake yet?”

“She's in and out. I can look after her, Jensen. You should go home.”

He pushes away from her, stretches until his back pops. “I know you can, but I need to.”

 

 

Jensen can still remember the first time he saw Danneel, hanging off a guy from another club at a party Jensen and Chris were crashing for lack of anything better to do. She wore tiny cut-off shorts and cowboy boots with a scrap of gold fabric that was really more of a technicality than a top. She sizzled and popped at the end of the bar like electrical sparks from the end of a live wire, her hair constantly moving and shimmering under the dim haze of the lighting.

She was the most fascinating woman he'd ever met and the most satisfying one he'd ever bedded, even after she started shooting crank like she would never get enough. If virtually everything had happened differently, Jensen thinks maybe they would have managed to be happy together.

When he steps into her room, the bed seems too big for Danneel's diminutive body. Her head sinks back against the pillows, her hands folded over her stomach as she stares out the window through dull eyes. He sinks to the chair at her side but she doesn't focus on his face until he reaches out a finger to move her hair from her forehead.

“I'm so sorry, Jensen,” she sobs, tears flowing as though that sweaty strand of hair was the dam holding them back. “I didn't mean to. I'm so sorry.”

He tries to hush her, getting as close to the bed as he can, pulling her into his chest and letting her clutch at him until he's sure she's going to tear his shirt. He strokes her hair until her body stops convulsing with the grief of the day. He's still as angry as he's only ever been with her. Blame and finger-pointing isn't going to heal Danneel or the baby any faster, though.

“We should give him a name,” Jensen says when Danneel calms down enough to hear him speak. “He can't just be Baby Ackles forever.”

“You name him,” Danneel says automatically. “You're his father. You should do it.”

They've had this argument before, sometimes to the point of throwing things, so he knows exactly what this is and accepts the olive branch as such. “What d'ya think of Rider?”

Brows drawing together, Danneel asks, “Don't you think it's a little too, I don't know, on the nose?”

“Yeah, well,” Jensen shrugs, taking her hand in both of his, “I've never been much for poetry and metaphors.”

“Better with your hands than your mind,” Danneel whispers fondly, settling back to let her eyes close for a second. “Jared says I'm outta here in a couple days.” She pries one eye open to give him a studied look. “What happens then?”

“You wanna be a part of Rider's life, you check yourself into rehab and you make it stick this time. You owe him that much.”

She nods, tongue traveling the length of her bottom lip as she brings her hands back to rest against her belly. “Yeah, of course. I meant,” she stops herself and closes her eyes again. “Did you know he was back?”

“No.”

“Does it change anything?”

He sighs heavily and answers with complete honesty. “No.” The divorce papers were filed almost a month ago now; the baby didn't change anything then and Jared doesn't change it now.

Another tear escapes the corner of her eye as Danneel settles back, drowning in the pillows and blankets once more. “Tired,” is all she mumbles.

“Get some sleep. I'll check in with you later.”

Jensen drops a kiss on her forehead and walks into the hallway, where Jeff and his right-hand man, Jim, are waiting. “Mornin',” Jensen says, tipping the bill of his baseball hat in greeting.

Jeff steps forward to wrap his arms around Jensen's shoulders, gripping tightly to the back of his neck. Here, in the security of the arms that have been holding him up since he was a kid, Jensen finally lets his shoulders relax for the first time in twelve hours.

“You hangin' in there?” Jeff asks when he finally pulls back.

“We'll get through,” Jensen says, words more confident on his lips than they feel in his throat.

“Damn right we will,” Jeff assures him, patting his shoulder before he steps back. “You got back-up, nine strong. Whatever you need. Say the word.”

It's a sentiment that doesn't need to be voiced, but one that Jensen appreciates nonetheless. “Thanks,” he answers, gesturing vaguely toward one of the halls; they're all starting to look the same. “Sam went that way. I think.”

Jeff raises his eyebrows, gives Jensen's arm another pat, and then disappears in the opposite direction of Jensen's instructions.

When they're alone, Jim shrugs his shoulders and gives Jensen the pitying smile of a man who wears far too much experience for his years. “Been a long day for you, kid,” he finally says.

Jim used to ride with Jensen's dad, been a part of Jensen's family even longer than Jensen has. If anyone understands everything that he doesn't say out loud, it's Jim.

“He's in a bad way, man, but he's fightin'. Strongest three pounds I've ever seen.” The pride is evident, even to Jensen's own ears. “His little hands are in fists already.”

“Course they are,” Jim says, as if it's obvious. “He's your kid.” His grin fades when Jared is paged over the intercom. “About that.”

“There is no that,” Jensen insists automatically and then drops his head to run a hand over the back of his neck. Bullshit isn't going to fly this time. “It's in the past. I'm over it.”

“You sure? That boy messed your head up but good last time.”

Jensen doesn't need the reminder, thanks. “I'm not the one that left, Jim. I've been here every step of the way. I ain't goin' anywhere now or later. That's all that matters with that.”

Jim opens his mouth to respond but Jensen's attention is diverted by Jared stalking toward them like a man on a mission. He was always that kid, the one with somewhere to go and not nearly enough time to get there. He liked to run in the back when they used to stir shit up, said there was a rush in out-running trouble.

_Jared's face was flushed, his hair stuck to his forehead as he jogged to a stop in front of Jensen and dropped a box into his hands. “Told ya I could do it,” he boasted proudly._

_Jensen looked down and then raised an eyebrow at Jensen. “You stole tampons?”_

_“First thing I got my hands on,” Jared shrugged, laughing with Aldis as he fought to catch his breath._

_With a shake of his head, Jensen rested his hands on Jared's cheeks and asked, “What happened to my geek boyfriend, huh?” as sincerely as he could. “What if you'd gotten caught?”_

_Jared just rolled his eyes and rested his hands on Jensen's waist. “Please. Like they were gonna catch me. I'm like a cheetah, dude.”_

_It was so ridiculous that Jensen couldn't stop laughing, even when he grabbed Jared's bottom lip in his teeth and pulled until it slipped free. “What am I gonna do with you, huh?”_

His face is just as determined now as it was back then, too. “They need you to sign some insurance paperwork down in Admin,” he says, giving Jim a tight smile in greeting. “Hi, Jim.”

Jim just nods but doesn't say anything, leaving an awkward silence hanging between the three of them.

“I'll head down now,” Jensen says, if for no other reason than to break up the tension. “Thanks, Jared.”

The smile Jared turns on Jensen is far more genuine and Jensen will deny to his grave that it makes him feel anything anymore.

“Yeah,” Jim says against Jensen's ear, one arm slung around his shoulder to pat a hand against Jensen's heart. “You never left.”

  


  


It's been one of those days where Jared wishes he had never come back home. Scratch that. It's been one of those days where Jared wishes he'd never been born in this god-forsaken town, that he'd never met Jensen Ackles in the first place.

He's on his way to the parking lot, hoping to catch a few hours of uninterrupted sleep before another emergency crops up, when he hears a silky smooth voice clear in the shadows of the building.

“Nice night for a walk, isn't it?” Sam asks, stepping into the light with a cigarette burning between her fingers.

The last person Jared wants to see is Sam. He's done everything he can to avoid her while maintaining his professional composure, but he's just not sure he has it in him anymore. “Can we spare the 'stay away from my boy' speech until I've had a few hours sleep? It's been a long day, what with saving your grandson's life and all,” Jared fires, pressing his hand to his eye to chase the sleep away.

Sam stares at him for far too long, causing Jared to squirm under the weight of her gaze. For a small woman, she wears big heels and she scares the shit out of men twice Jared's size. Or she would, if there were men twice Jared's size.

“Why'd you come back here, Stretch? What's your end game?”

“My end game?” Jared huffs a sarcastic laugh. “Unlike your twisted gang of gorillas, Sam, I don't have an agenda, okay? Not everything in the world is about you and your blessed golden child in there.”

She recoils, smirk spreading on her lips as she looks Jared up and down. Sam has the eyes of a viper, just lying in wait to poison her next victim. Jared used to think it was comforting, knowing that Jensen was surrounded by these people that would go to any lengths to protect him. Now that they perceive him as the threat, Jared's not so enamored anymore.

“How's your momma doin', Jared? I heard she was sick.”

Her shoulders rolls as she straightens her back and rests her hands on her hips, but Jared doesn't step to the bait. He doesn't have to tell her anything; she's not the only one with a family to look out for around here.

“If I were you,” Sam says, taking a step closer and lowering her voice, “I would spend some time takin' real good care of her. When you're not tending to the sick and injured here, you attach yourself to your momma's bedside and you nurse her back to health. She's a good woman, deserves that much from her boy.” With a quick glance over her shoulder, she lowers her voice to barely above a whisper, her eyes flagpole-in-December cold. “Leave yourself no time to so much as think about Jensen, let alone fillin' his head with those fool notions of a better life outside this place, about leavin' his family for greener pastures. You get me?”

It takes every bit of cool Jared has not to scream or push her against the wall. If he hadn't been raised better, he might be tempted. Instead, he takes a deep breath and clenches his fists against the fury before he steps into her space and looms over her. He learned a long time ago that his size could be used as a weapon, but he's grown up a lot in the last decade. Some habits lie buried, but they don't die.

“The only member of your family I have got the least bit of interest in here is Rider,” he hisses, watching her slink back with only an ounce of satisfaction. “I doubt he's gonna listen to any fool notions right now, so as far as I'm concerned, you and I have got nothing else to say to each other.”

He doesn't bother hanging around to hear her rebuttal. Too wired to sleep, he burns a streak on the pavement as he peels out of the parking lot, Sam seething in his in rear view as he goes.

They were kids when he left, barely eighteen and sure they could change the entire world as long as they were together. At least, Jared thought they were. Jensen decided to stay, he chose his family over whatever life they could have built together, and Jared's dealt with that. He's moved on.

Unfortunately, just like everything in this backward town, nothing else has changed.

 

 

By the time he gets back to the hospital, Sam's car is gone but there are three more bikes parked alongside the other five that were here when Jared left. Whole club's here to show their support, which isn't exactly shocking; it's also not reassuring.

For a second, he considers parking in the back lot and sneaking into the office, but his pride won't let him slink away from this like a rat. Everybody knows that the Brothers in Arms run this town, mostly because they bark like the biggest dogs in the yard every chance they get. In Jared's experience, though, their bite is rarely vicious unless provoked. If he keeps his head down, they'll leave him be.

Tommy and Mike are standing near the entrance, smoking with another guy Jared doesn't recognize. As soon as Mike sees Jared, he tosses his cigarette to the ground and makes his way over with a bright smile and his arms outstretched.

“Well hold me down and fuck me backwards, Tommy wasn't lyin',” he laughs, volume pealing high and melodic into the somber silence surrounding the building. “Look what the fucking cat dragged back to our little one-horse town.”

Jared cringes under the weight of Mike's arm across his shoulder, but he forces a smile anyway. “Never thought I'd see your ugly mug again, Rosey,” he offers as a greeting.

“Well, lucky for all of us, I am very well behaved,” Mike says, patting Jared's chest in rhythm with his words. “Let me out in seven short years.”

“Yeah, lucky for us,” Tommy huffs, rolling his eyes as he steps up to offer Jared a hand. “You slept at all since this started?” When Jared shakes his head, Tommy follows suit. “Not gonna lie, kid, it'd make me feel a lot more easy if you were rested up before the next round.”

Bone tired and emotionally exhausted, Jared just sighs. “I'd prefer that, too, but I'll be alright. I'm good at what I do, Tommy. Rider's in good hands.”

“Speakin' of which, I been wonderin' something,” Mike says, stepping in again as he lights another cigarette. “That kid's this big,” he makes a tiny gesture with his thumb and middle finger, “so how is it you get those meaty paws inside his little innards without fuckin' shit all up?”

It's not the first time Jared has heard the question. Wiggling his fingers, he says, “I got mad skills.”

“That's what he said,” Mike snorts.

Jared is rolling his eyes when the new guy pipes in with, “That's what who said?”

“Jesus Christ, you really are as dumb as you look, aren't you?” Tommy asks with a laugh. “This is Chad,” he tells Jared. “Better known as Dumb Fuck until he proves otherwise.”

Jared turns, nodding at the awkward, wiry kid still looking somewhat confused in the corner. “Nice to meet ya, Dumb Fuck,” he says flatly, drawing a laugh from Mike and Tommy. “Alright, fellas, if we're done with this meet and greet, I need to get back to work.”

As a resident, Jared doesn't have an office of his own, but their head surgeon has graciously allowed him to use hers when he needs to get away for a few minutes. Jared sinks to his chair and runs his hands over his face. His mother beams at him from a picture Dr. Ferris lets him keep on the corner of the desk, vibrant and healthy like she hasn't been in years. Coming back was the right call, he knows, but less than a week back in town, he can't help wondering if he wasn't stupidly naïve to think he could avoid the drama.

A knock on the door draws his attention.

“You got a minute?” Jensen asks, one hip propped against the frame, arms crossed over his chest.

He's exactly the same, save for a little bulk and scruff. Same oversized clothes. Same cocksure grin. Same bruises and cuts on his face and hands. Same tortured look in the same bright eyes. He's as dirty beautiful as he ever was and just as dangerous.

Jared nods toward the chair across the desk and leans back, the walls and defenses clicking into place as Jensen sits. “Nice cut,” Jared says, eyes on the leather vest Jensen wasn't sporting earlier.

Fingers and eyes trailing over the patches sewn into the soft fabric, Jensen half-smiles when he says, “All I ever wanted.”

Jared huffs but says nothing. What's left to say that they didn't already hash out years ago? Jared made the offer – a life together, free from the violence and the mayhem here, with no obligations or fear – and Jeff made a counter – a patch with the Brothers and a family that had never turned their backs on Jensen, even when they could have. So, yeah, Jared knows where Jensen's heart has always been.

“I need you to be brutally straight with me.” Leaning forward, Jensen folds his hands on the desk. “My kid, what are his chances?”

Jared exhales and throws the standard, _I'm going to do the very best that I can_ speech out the window. Jensen will just see through it anyway. “He pulled through the first surgery with no complications. Before that, I would have said fifteen or twenty percent. Now?” Jared opens his hands and shrugs. “I think we're at about fifty fifty. He's a fighter, Jensen. Toughest little thing I've seen in a long time.”

Jensen looks lost, moreso than usual, as he stands and grabs the picture frame off the desk. It’s hard to miss the fond look in his eyes when he rubs his thumb over the glass. “I'm not cut out for this,” he says, matter-of-factly. “Trauma, I can handle, but if he pulls through this, if I gotta take him home, Jared? I can't be a parent.”

“You have a shit ton of help waiting for you to say the word,” Jared reminds him. He can say a lot of things about those men out there, roaming the halls, but they're loyal to a fault. Jensen's not going to go through this alone.

“Danni says she's goin' to rehab. Fuck knows if it'll stick this time. Jeff and Chris have been workin' a deal that's supposed to have a big-time haul, but it's takin' a long damn time to move all the pieces into place. Doesn't feel right. I just.” He stops, leans a shoulder into the wall and stares at his feet. “I got an uneasy feeling about everything right now.”

Busting up fire hydrants and shoplifting at the general store was nothing for them as kids. Even a few bogus runs for Jeff, just enough to keep Jensen busy and make him feel important, were harmless. Jared learned early on not to ask question and he's not about to start now. Sometimes it's better to be stumbling around in the dark.

“Why are you tellin' me all this?”

Jensen starts, like maybe he didn't mean to say all of that out loud, but then he turns to Jared and his eyes are sincere and serious. After a long, bordering-on-awkward silence, he meets Jared's eye. “I can't tell them.”

God, they've had this conversation a thousand times, Jared's sure.

_”I don't get you,” Jensen said, the wind blowing through the trees as he watched Jared studying at one of the picnic tables in the city park. “You're not like anyone I know.”_

_Jared looked up from his Algebra textbook and considered Jensen for a second. “Maybe you don't know the right people.”_

_“No, I think it's exactly right. Cause I can tell you the shit I can't tell anyone else and you get it, ya know?”_

At the time, Jared thought it was the greatest compliment in the world. Times change.

“I'm not your puppy anymore,” Jared informs him and it feels a little like his mouth is moving without permission from his brain. “You can't seduce me with your twisted conscience bullshit, Jensen.” He pushes away from the desk and rests his hands on his waist. “All your words, all your internal conflict and your teenage angst, stopped meaning shit to me when you patched in with the Brothers.” _When you chose this for yourself_ , goes unsaid.

With a chuckle, Jensen says, “Man, I forgot how self-righteous you can be sometimes.”

It's not meant to rile him up, Jared can tell. It's just Jensen's version of the truth – no absolutes or outright black and whites. He looks out for his and they look out for him. Everything, within that context, is justifiable. Jared never subscribed to that newsletter.

Before he can tell him as much, a soft knock sounds on the door and Aldis pops his head in. “Jeff's got a drop off out on Route 6. Wants to know if you feel like the distraction.” Rolling his shoulders, he shines a smile on Jared. “Hey, Jay man.”

 _They got to you, too_ , Jared thinks as he nods in greeting. Everybody they ran with in high school is a Brother now. Everybody but Jared. How is that even possible?

“You'll call me if anything changes?”

With a nod, Jared raises a hand. Maybe it's confirmation; maybe it's defeat. “We're not comfortable doing another surgery before tomorrow anyway.”

Once they're gone, he slumps back into his chair and tilts his face toward the ceiling. Even if he can manage to find sleep, rest is still a long way off.

  


  


Jensen is most at home at moments like this. On the open road, riding with his boys at his back, heading for a job; it's a motor, his family, and a purpose. Everything he's ever really needed to be happy is right here, right now. The last twenty-four hours have been a complete departure from reality, but this feels familiar and right.

By the time they arrive at the drop, there are two farmers in a rusted pickup truck waiting on them. They wear straw cowboy hats, faces leather-tough from years in the sun. There's nothing particularly imposing or suspicious about either of them at all. In fact, they're a far cry from the usual clientele.

The drop takes, in total, about five minutes. Misha counts the cash while Aldis loads a single case of semi-automatics. Jensen, never being one to leave an associate without so much as a hello, does his best to strike up a conversation.

“You fellas mind me askin' why a couple farmers might need that kind of heavy artillery?”

The younger of the two only glares at him, moving one hand from his belt buckle to his side. Jensen's got his own gun out of his jeans before the kid can think to pull his. The elder of the pair holds a hand out and shakes his head, laughing with amusement as only someone who's seen too much to be affected by the bullshit posturing of youth can.

“Rumor has it, there's a new wind blowin' this way from the East,” the old farmer says.

Aldis slams the tailgate and takes up his place at Jensen's side. Misha tucks the cash inside his jacket and steps to the other side, hand hovering over his piece as though he might need it on these two.

When Jensen was twenty, standing here like a bad ass vigilante felt like the coolest thing in the world. There are times now when it strikes him as hilarious. They're not scaring this guy; they just look like they’re trying too hard. Of course, it won't stop them but it’s still funny in his head.

“You guys heard anything about new winds?” he asks Misha and Aldis.

“Nope,” Aldis answers.

Misha just shakes his head and Jensen prays he's not trying to wear his intimidating face.

“Think that's your paranoia kickin' up, gentlemen, but we appreciate your business nonetheless.” Stuffing his gun into the back of his belt, he nods at each of them. “Been a pleasure.”

It's not the first drop Jeff's sent them on that makes less than total sense lately. Little guys here and there, shop owners and cattle ranchers, are arming themselves a few pieces at a time like they're trying to build a militia under the radar. Now that he's thinking about it, Jensen realizes that they haven't done a substantial sale in weeks, no multiple cases to any of their regular customers.

At the stoplight outside of town, he makes a mental note to ask Jeff about it later and then eases off the clutch to lead his boys home. It'd be nice to catch a few hours of sleep before he has to head back to the hospital.

Jeff is on the porch of the clubhouse, puffing on cigars with Demore and Jim when Jensen slows his bike to a stop alongside the others. Hugs and handshakes are exchanged as Misha hands the cash over to Jeff and they all trickle inside. Chad's restocking beer at the bar and Tommy's laughing at the shot Chris is trying to line up at the pool table while Mike watches and mocks both of them.

“C'mon, guys. Church time,” Jeff says with a wave of his hand.

That's all it takes for all of them to abandon their stations and follow him into the chapel at the back of the old saloon-cum-clubhouse. Jensen stops to pat the seat of the bar stool that sits right outside their inner sanctum, the place he sat during every meeting before he was patched into the Brothers in Arms.

There are only ten of them inside this twenty by fifteen foot room, divided in the middle by a long, solid oak table. Gathered in here, door shut and everyone sitting shoulder-to-shoulder, it's always looked like thirty or more guys to Jensen. He's not sure he'll ever get used to the intoxicating rush of his brothers all joined together like this.

Once the shot glasses are passed, Jeff pounds the gavel from his seat at the head of the table. “First order of business, a toast is in order-” he raises his glass and uses his free hand to clap Jensen on the shoulder, “-for the newest daddy in the family. Glasses up!” No one defies the order. “To Jensen. And Rider.”

The cheer rises around Jensen and he ducks his head to keep his blush hidden. He's been here so many times before, celebrating marriages and births and other milestones for other people; it's always seemed like something for the guys who have lived longer and seen more than his rookie ass has. Now now that it’s Jensen’s turn, it feels surreal.

“Second order,” Jeff goes on, kicking back in his chair to fold his hands over his stomach. “We got a shipment comin' over the border from Mexico tomorrow night. Should be fairly routine, but it's a big one so I want all hands on deck.” He winks at Jensen and adds, “Unless you got a doctor's note.”

“Speaking of doctors,” Mike pipes in.

A few of the guys chuckle but Jensen just rolls his eyes and says, “Nobody's speakin' of doctors, Rosey.”

“You sure?” Chris asks, his feet kicked up on the table next to Jeff, his brow narrowed.

Jensen shoots him a look of warning. “Why does everyone keep asking me that? Yes, I am sure. Jesus, it's not like I asked him to come back!”

“Nobody's sayin' you did,” Jim says from the other end of the table, voice low as though he's trying to calm something that hasn't started yet.

“We're just askin' if you can keep your head in the game is all,” Aldis adds, tapping the butt of his unlit cigarette against the oak in front of him.

It's starting to feel like an interrogation in here and Jensen's not having so much fun, being as he's not the one leading it. “This is stupid. It doesn't matter if I like it or if I don't. He's here and that's my shit to deal with. It doesn't interfere with the club.”

“We could send him back to Boston.”

The thing about Demore is that he's really quiet, scary as shit, and has the most fucked up sense of humor Jensen has ever seen. Most of the time, Jensen is glad he's on their side; sometimes he wonders if that even matters.

“No, you,” he stops and shakes his head. “Are you crazy? The guy is here to help his sick mother, and when he's not doin' that, he's saving my son's life. Nobody's gonna touch him, got it?”

Demore just shrugs and Mike asks, “Not even you?”

Jensen jerks out of his chair, causing it to screech back against the concrete floor. “What the fuck is going on here?” he asks, feeling like his celebration slid downhill a little too fast. “Since when do we spend club time prying into each other's bedrooms? Where were you bitches when I was bangin' a two-bit porn star with a very large, very angry boyfriend? Or when I married and knocked up a junkie? Who gave a shit what my dick was doin' then, huh?”

“This ain't about your dick, Jensen,” Chris interrupts the rant to lean forward and fold his arms. “It's about your heart.”

Jensen's blood boils and the drywall cracks beneath his hand before he realizes he’s punched the wall. “I had a chance to leave with him ten years ago and I stayed. I was so far up his ass back then that I couldn't see the bigger picture, and I turned my back anyway. For this club, I have given a hell of a lot of blood, sweat, and tears. I've done time for you guys and I have never, not even once, hesitated to cover each and every back at this table, so don't you dare,” he hisses, fists grinding against the table as he leans into Chris' face and finishes, “ _ever_ question my heart again!”

Above the blood rushing through his ears, Jensen hears Chad ask, “So, wait. Jensen's gay?”

Jeff clears his throat and says, “Get his ass outta here 'fore Jensen kills him.” He cuts his eyes around the table. “All of ya. Go on.”

One by one, the guys parade out of the chapel until only Jensen is left. There's silence between them; Jeff won't speak first and Jensen's got nothing to say. Instead, he just pushes up from the table and turns to leave.

“Where you goin'?” Jeff calls after him.

“Gonna go lie down. It's been a long day.”

The clubhouse has four separate bedrooms, sparsely furnished with beds, lamps, and dressers in case guys party a little too hard or a fight gets out of hand at home. Jensen unlocks the first door on the right – he claimed it after deciding to let Danneel keep his place after the divorce - and carefully locks it back once he's inside.

His muscles ache under the weight of failure. Failing Jared ultimately led to failing Danneel which obviously led to failing Rider. If he had a quarter for every time he wished he had done something differently in his life, he'd never have to run another gun.

“ _You hide behind words like loyalty and family, Jensen, but the truth is you get a rush outta bein' a bad ass. Settlin' down in a boring life with me isn't enough for you. It never will be._ ”

Jared's last words a decade ago ring in Jensen's head. He was right at the time. Jensen loved being a bad ass outlaw back then. Truth is he still loves it most of the time. He just had no idea the guilt and responsibility that came with being a real Brother back then. He thought it would be mayhem and a few fist fights - the same shit he's been doin' since he was twelve. In the back of his head, he knew there was more, but he never slowed down long enough to put the pieces together.

He's made the choice to pull every trigger, throw ever punch, move every illegal firearm. He's always owned that, but he's starting to wonder if it's enough. He doesn’t worry about much and he’s not a fan of drawn-out contemplation. Jeff says it makes him a good leader, his ability to charge through a door, gun pulled, without fear or hesitation. It's more like he's too stupid to be scared. It's never mattered before if he didn't make it home in one piece because the Brothers would be there to pick him up and put him back together.

It matters now.

Exhaustion overpowers him before he can make any promises to himself about how he's going to change. It's probably for the best; Jensen's never been that great at keeping that kind of promise.

 

 

“Get your lazy ass up, fuckface!”

Jensen bolts upright in the bed, makes his way to his feet with his gun in his hand before he really registers being awake.

“I will break this goddamn door down, Jensen. Open up!”

“Jesus Christ, man, I'm coming!” he shouts back, shaking his head as he crosses the room and throws the door open to find Tommy with a shit-eating grin and a car seat.

Throwing his arms wide, Jensen can't help smiling in return. “What the hell do you want?” he asks, stepping aside to let Tommy enter.

“Brought ya a present,” he says, tossing the car seat onto the bed. “It was Knox's, but Leah cleaned it up and everything, so I figure it's one less thing you gotta buy.”

“Thanks,” Jensen says, eyes stuck on the car seat. It's the embodiment of everything he is not ready to face yet, screaming at him in gray plastic and blue plaid.

Sam has been planning a shower for Danneel, but they haven't had it yet. Rider's room is still empty and unpainted. They don't have a stroller or a crib; they only have a few outfits that Sam bought after Jensen told her Danneel was pregnant. If there is a silver lining to Rider being so premature, it’s that he gets to stay in the hospital, under the care of trained professionals, for longer. Jensen is not ready to bring him home yet.

“You okay, man?” Tommy asks, making his way to the bed. He sits next to the car seat and tucks one leg under his body. “It's been a crazy couple days around here.”

“Yeah, I'm just,” Jensen stops and shakes his head, leaning back against the dresser. There are a million things that he wants to ask but he doesn't even know where to start. “D'you freak out when Knox was born?”

Tommy laughs, head thrown back like Jensen just told a great joke, and then clears his throat to compose himself. “I've stared down the barrel of a gun I don't even know how many times, man, but the day they put that kid in my arms? I thought I was gonna pass the fuck out.” He smiles, his teeth too perfect thanks to a dentist who owes the club more than a couple favors. “Bro, I don't know what you're so worried about. You're gonna be the best dad out of all of us.”

“The fuck is wrong with you?” Jensen asks him automatically. He's not the youngest guy in the club, but he's close. As far as life experience goes, Jensen's got nothing on most of his brothers. “I feel like I can't tell my ass from my elbow right now.” Pushing off of the dresser, he drops onto the mattress at the other side of the car seat.

Tom runs one hand through his hair and scratches the other over his stubble. His beard won't get a chance to grow very long because his wife, Leah, doesn't like the way it feels, but it doesn't stop Tom from trying. Anything to prove he's not as whipped as everyone knows he is.

“You remember that fight we got into back in high school?” Tommy asks.

“Yeah, you're gonna have to narrow that down for me,” Jensen teases with a hint of a grin.

Tommy smiles right along with him and leans forward to rest his elbows on the edge of the car seat. “My senior year, I was in love with that girl, Felicia?”

Jensen nods. Tommy's definition of 'love' back then was a little different than it is now, but whatever he had for Felicia was definitely something. It was something big enough to cause him to knock out the Mayor's son, Felicia’s boyfriend, during a football game while the whole damn town watched in horror. It was something big enough to land all of them in a huge brawl, the only time Jensen knows of that a high school football game had to be stopped because of a riot in the stands.

“You remember why you took the fall for startin' all that?” Tommy asks.

“I was only fifteen. They weren't gonna throw me in jail for assault.”

“You never have given yourself enough credit, bro. You draw fast but you think faster,” Tommy says, standing from the bed and stretching his arms over his head. “Ain't nothin' goes down with your family that you don't know about and aren't half way to resolvin' before it starts.” He slaps Jensen's thigh on his way out of the room. “Rider's a lucky kid already.”

Scooting forward on the bed, Jensen reaches under the pillow and withdraws an old, faded photograph that he's carried with him for going on seventeen years now.

His dad has a hunting knife hanging off his right hip and a semi-automatic handgun tucked in the shoulder holster under his arm, the handle peeking out from under his beaten and battered cut. Jensen doesn't have to see it to know there's another piece just like it tucked into the back of his dad's pants. His beard is mountain-man long and bushy, his hair equally disheveled and his eyes are hidden behind mirrored aviators.

His mom has the biggest hair Jensen has ever seen, teased and sprayed like a bleached helmet, with dark eye shadow and frosted pink lipstick. Her jeans are tight and her shirt even tighter, her smile stretched from one side of her face to the other. The diamonds and gold on her fingers sparkle in the afternoon sunlight; the ones in her ears and around her neck are even more blinding. There's a cigarette burning between her fingers and it bothers Jensen that he can't remember the smell of her perfume mingled with the smoke anymore.

Between them, straddling his dad's Harley, Jensen grins like the happiest kid in the world. He's got his dad's hand on one shoulder and his mom's on the other, a plastic six-shooter in a hip holster around his waist. He's eight in the picture, wearing a black vest onto which he crudely drew the Brothers' logo in white chalk that he stole from the blackboard at school.

The only thing that kid knew about being in a club was that he had thirteen uncles who liked drinking a lot of beer and shooting guns in the yard behind the garage and a mess of women just like his mom who were always fussing after him and wiping his face after he ate at the bar in the clubhouse. There were plenty of kids to play with, clothes on his back, and a nice house where he had his own room with a television in it. He didn't worry about the fact that some of those guys went away on vacation and never came home again and he didn't wonder why the police showed up to ask questions sometimes.

Rubbing his thumb over the face of that kid, Jensen tells himself that Rider can be as happy as he was back then, that Jensen can give his son everything that his dad, and later Jeff and the other Brothers, gave him. He can give Rider a good life and the security of a family that would do anything for him.

 

 

Jensen hasn't been home in what feels like an eternity. Letting Danneel have the house wasn't really a decision; he has a place at the clubhouse and she didn't have anywhere else to go. It feels like a completely different place when he steps through the door, the stale stench of crank, smoke, and dirty water slapping him in the face.

There are dishes piled in the sink and all over the counter, couch cushions left scattered on the floor, and the chair Danneel must have been sitting in when she shot up is overturned in the middle of the dining room. He should have noticed, should have checked in more often. As far as Jensen is concerned, this is on him.

The front door creaks and Aldis slips in, his eyes growing wide as he looks at the mess. “Jee-zus,” he drawls, letting out a low whistle.

All Jensen can do is nod. He feels too numb to respond. Earlier, he was thinking that he would ask Sam and a couple of the other girls to come over and paint Rider's nursery, set everything up for his release, whenever that may be. It's going to take more than a coat of paint.

“Who lives like this?” Aldis asks.

Jensen turns and watches as Aldis grabs a stack of unopened mail covered in coffee stains and what appears to be dried ice cream. He wants to be pissed off, to feel the anger he felt on the ride to the hospital last night, but all he finds when casting another glance around the room, layers of dust covering all of the shelves and picture frames, highlighted by the sun's rays filtering through the blinds, is an overwhelming sadness.

For all of her faults and flaws, Danneel has a big heart. She gets Jensen's life, but she maintains a softness that would have made her a great mother. A part of him hates that she's not going to have that chance now. As he was leaving the clubhouse, he got a call from the police chief, letting him know that the District Attorney wants to charge Danneel with child endangerment upon her release from the hospital. The club has pull with the local cops, but the DA has it out for them and there's no way Jensen's going to be able to pull strings to save her from that charge.

Sam will fill in the gap, just like she did for Jensen way back when, but the situation still blows.

He heads into the bathroom, throwing the medicine cabinet open. There are several vitamin bottles that, as Jensen opens each of them, reveal more and more baggies of pills and powder. If the cops found this, they'd have her on possession with intent to distribute easily. The saddest part is that Jensen knows she never intended to give an ounce of it to anyone else.

Aldis reaches around him without question, grabbing the first bottle. He begins sorting the baggies, stuffing different drugs into different pockets of his jeans.

“What are you doing?” Jensen asks, grabbing Aldis' wrist. “Flush it,” he demands. If they charge Danneel with anything, they're going to search the house to build their case. The house is in Jensen's name. That DA would just love to have a reason to send Jensen away for a long damn time and Jensen is not inclined to hand him one that easily.

“You know how much cash there is here?” Aldis asks him, as though Jensen is the crazy one. “We hand it off to Misha, he can peddle it for enough to recoup that deal we lost out on last week.” When he sees that Jensen isn't backing down, he adds, “Jeff's orders, man. I can't defy that.”

One of the vitamin bottles crashes into the wall, the top popping off when it hits the floor. Jensen is seething, vision tinted red when he says, “This shit almost killed my kid,” grabbing a handful from the floor and throwing it Aldis. “Fucking flush it. Now.”

He stalks out of the room, hands on his head as he hears the toilet flush for the first time. They've never dealt drugs in this town and Jensen doesn't know why in the hell Jeff would start doing it now. This shit has taken more than one of their brothers over time, has torn families apart, and Jeff has always been adamant about leaving it to the other clubs that deal outside their borders. It doesn't make the first bit of sense that he would want to start selling it off now.

Aldis has no reason to lie to him, though, and that bothers Jensen more than anything. Jeff’s new favorite phrase seems to be ' _trust me on this_ ' and Jensen usually does. It's just that lately, the stakes seem to be getting higher and Jeff is keeping everyone out of the loop on the end game.

“It's done,” Aldis says, patting Jensen's shoulder as he brushes past. “I gotta go meet up with Chad and Mike. We're makin' a repo run,” he explains. “You gonna be alright here?”

Jensen waves Aldis toward the door. “Yeah.” They shake hands and Aldis is gone. Jensen sinks to a chair at the dining room table and stares blankly at a few cigarette burns in the floor.

 

 

“Holy Christ,” Sam's voice comes from the doorway when Jensen is up to his elbows in soapy dishwater a couple of hours later.

He throws a glance over his shoulder and offers a small smile. At the point, he's so numb to the destruction that it's not as intimidating as it was. “Welcome to my humble abode,” he says quietly.

Sam drapes her jacket over the back of one of the chairs and sidles up next to Jensen, bumping his hip with her own. “I got this,” she says.

“It’s fine,” Jensen tries to argue, but she just pushes a hand against his shoulder until he takes a step back. “What the hell am I supposed to do, Sam?” he asks, water flying from his fingers.

“You could go visit your son,” she suggests, casting a glance out the corner of her eye. When Jensen doesn't respond, she adds, “That kid deserves better than the shit hand life's dealt him so far. Let me worry about cleanin' this place up and you go be a dad for awhile, alright?”

Jensen nods for lack of anything better to do at the moment. He keeps telling himself that he's going to wake up out of this surreality soon, but the hits just keep coming. Going to the hospital makes him feel powerless, but staying home makes him feel guilty. Life used to be about riding free and bucking social conformity, a little rebellion funded by a few felonies here and there.

As far as Jensen knows, they're still operating under the same code they always have but, for some reason, it doesn’t make him feel peaceful or immortal like it used to.

“I'll call you if anything changes,” he promises, dropping a kiss on her cheek before he leaves.

  


  


“Ma, I'm headin' out!” Jared calls, jogging down the stairs while affixing his pager to his belt. “Call me if you need anything, okay?”

Silence is something he never got much of back at the hospital in Boston so he thought he would appreciate it once he got home. Turns out, it fills him with more dread than relief these days.

“Mom!” he shouts, tearing through the living room and pushing her bedroom door open to find his mother lying in her bed, eyes blankly fixed on _Wheel of Fortune_ on her small, black and white television.

When he was a kid, his mother was the one who came to every soccer game, supplied snacks for all of his debate tournaments, and showed up in the middle of the night when his friends were too drunk to drive home from a party. He didn't think much of it, but he's not entirely sure she slept at all in those days. She certainly wouldn't have had much time for it.

Now, all she does is lie in bed or on the couch, watching television. Some days, he can see the desire in her eyes, knows she's thinking about everything she used to have the strength to do – ride horses at the stable outside of town, run on the treadmill at the Y, take a walk down Main Street just to say hello to everyone she's known since she was a kid around here.

Other days, though, he can see the fight slowly dying behind her eyes. Her oncologist says she doesn't have much longer; while she's defied the odds for more than three years, Jared can tell that they're getting closer now. All he can do is give her the best care possible and pray that she digs deep enough to find just a little more will.

“Hey,” he smiles softly, sinking to the chair at her bedside, running a hand over the top of her sweat-matted hair until she turns her gaze to him. “You need anything before I leave?”

She blinks twice and then runs her tongue along her lower lip. “How's the baby?”

Jared just chuckles and leans forward, elbows on his knees as he runs one hand over his face. “I'll know more when I get home tonight. We're gonna do the heart surgery this afternoon. But he's a tough kid. I've got this gut feeling he's gonna pull through.”

Confidentiality says that he shouldn't be telling her anything about Rider or any of his other patients, but it's not about the baby. It's Jensen. Those rules have always been different, especially for his mother.

It never used to matter what was going on in their house, if Jensen showed up, Jared's mother welcomed him with open arms, even after she knew they were dating. Sometimes Jared was grateful. Other times, he found it downright humiliating.

_Ma! Jensen's sleepin' over!” Jared called down the hall, praying he could get Jensen up the stairs before his mother said something embarrassing._

_“You guys want snacks?” she asked, popping her head out of the kitchen. When Jared shook his head, she winked at them and said, “Try to keep your voice down, Jensen. I don't wanna hear it this time.”_

Jared can still hear Jensen's laughter following him up the stairs and his cheeks warm with the memory even now.

“If anyone can save him, it's you, baby,” she says, pride evident in her dull, gray eyes. “You ever think that maybe this is the reason you met him back then?” Off of Jared's raised eyebrow, she lies back on her pillow and gives the faintest hint of a laugh. “You know there's nobody else he would trust with his son like he trusts you, Jared.”

“I can think of about twenty other people he trusts more than me,” Jared interjects. It sounds bitter, but Jared doesn't really stop to consider just how not over Jensen he might be.

His mom just grins. “Not with this. Hell, maybe that's why this cancer's eatin' me up, to give you a reason to get your ass back here when he needed you most.”

“Yeah, well if that's the case,” Jared says, standing and groaning while his spine pops into place, “I'd be just as happy to never see him again.” He bends to kiss her goodbye and then runs his hand over the top of her head again. “Stop it with the fairytale bullshit, Ma. Whatever Jensen and I were back then is over, okay? Nothing is gonna change that.”

He's rounding the bed when he hears her thin voice practically sing-songing, “We'll see.”

 

 

Jensen is sitting next to Rider's incubator when Jared arrives at the hospital. He's not the first parent Jared has seen looking wrecked at their child's bedside, but this one stings a little deeper than it should, definitely deeper than most.

“Hey,” he greets, determined to be cordial as he grabs the binder from the end of the bed and flips it open. All of the numbers kind of run together when he knows that Jensen's eyes are on him. “You gotten any sleep?”

With a shake of his head, Jensen leans back in the chair and crosses his ankle over his opposite knee. “Caught a couple hours at the clubhouse earlier.” His eyes flit to Rider and then back to Jared. “How's Danni doin'?”

“You could go check for yourself,” Jared suggests, flipping the chart closed and slipping it back into the holder. “She is your wife, after all.” It's probably a little petty; Jared probably doesn't care.

“Ex-wife,” Jensen says with the hint of a small smile. “Almost ex-wife,” he rectifies, the grin growing. “How long you been waitin' to ask me about her?”

Jared rolls his eyes and tucks his hands into the pockets of his coat. “Outside of this room, your life is none of my business.” The real answer to his question is ' _probably as long as you've been waiting to tell me about her_ ,' but he's not about to say that out loud.

Jensen just rocks back and forth, hands folded over his stomach as he considers his next words. “Contrary to what you may have been tellin' yourself in that pretty head for the last decade, Jared, I never wanted this to end. I just couldn't leave.”

With a sigh, Jared schools his expression and says, “And I couldn't stay,” before he turns for the door. He pulls his open and then says, “Our admin told me that the DA's pressing charges against Danneel. Somebody from county's supposed to be comin' to take her as soon as she's discharged, but I convinced her doctor to hold off on signing her out until after the surgery. I figure she might wanna know how it goes first.”

“Jared,” Jensen calls out and it stops Jared short of leaving.

In reality, it freezes him to his place. That name in that tone from that voice has always paralyzed him.

“If you had stayed-” Jensen starts to ask, “- or if I had gone.”

But Jared's already asked that question a thousand times so he has an answer at the ready before Jensen finishes. “It doesn't matter anymore.”

 

 

 

Rider's heart surgery is successful, but Jared steps out of the operating room to let Jensen know and Jensen's not in the waiting room. Instead, he finds Tommy's wife, Leah, sitting with Sam and Danneel. There's an armed officer standing just to the side of the couch.

Danneel stands immediately, her face gaunt and colorless except for the dark circles under her eyes. Her street clothes hang even looser on her frame than the hospital gown did and she looks like she hasn't stopped crying in the past forty-eight hours.

“Hey, Jared,” she greets uneasily, her right hand automatically crossing to rub at the inside of her left elbow.

“It's good to see you back on your feet,” he says, plastering the smile he reserves for the loved ones of his patients across his face. It's fake as hell and she probably knows that, but it's the best he can do right now. “Surgery went well. He's not out of the woods or anything, but if he makes it through the next twenty-four hours, we might be able to take him out of the incubator in the next couple of weeks.”

Tears well in her eyes immediately as she lunges forward to throw her arms around his neck. “Thank you so much,” she whispers against his neck, her lips tickling his skin as she repeats the words.

He pats her as gently as he can and then disentangles himself, steeling himself for the look he's sure Sam is giving him over Danneel's shoulder. When he does look up, Sam certainly isn't shooting him best friend vibes, but she seems reasonably pleased to hear the good news.

She doesn't address him when she stands, though. With a hand on Danneel's shoulder, she offers a tissue and guides her toward the door. “Come on. Let's not keep the nice cop waiting.”

Of course Sam is going to make sure that Danneel makes it into those cuffs; she'll probably follow the squad car all the way to lock-up. Jared only hopes she doesn't shoot the poor girl through the window on the way.

What he really wants to know is where the hell Jensen went in the middle of his own son's potentially fatal surgery. He's not about to ask Sam, though, so he lets the women pass and waits until they're gone to release the breath he's been holding since scrubbing out a few minutes ago.

He knows damn well he doesn't have a choice as to whether or not he's going to see the Brothers – it's a small town, after all – but Jared's not entirely sure he's mentally strong enough to keep up with the drama they bring. For all the peace they like to think they keep around here, that club leaves nothing but agitation in their wake and picking up the pieces takes a toll. Jared has enough to worry about without adding their crap to his plate.

“Jared!”

Turning on his heel, he cringes at the sight of the hospital Admin, Katie, making her way toward him. They day he interviewed, Jared couldn't help thinking that this tall, slim blond, with her tailored pencil skirt and her meticulous manicure, seemed extremely out of place in this podunk hospital. She certainly acts like she owns the place, though.

“Hi, Katie,” he greets with forced politeness that he barely tries to cover.

She crosses her arms and Jared braces himself for whatever she may need this time. “How did the surgery go?” He nods and she smiles slightly. “Oh, thank goodness. I'm sure his father will be glad to hear it.”

It's hard to miss the disdain dripping from the words when she mentions Jensen. “Thanks for letting Dr. Ferris hold off on releasing Danneel,” he says sincerely.

Katie just nods and casts a glance over her shoulder. “There's a few of those bikers looking for you. I thought you might want a heads up.” Jared sighs and runs a hand over the back of his neck, prompting her to ask, “Do I need to call security?”

Coming from anyone else, he would think it a valid question, but knowing that she's asking out of preconceived notions bothers him more than he wants to admit. “No, I can handle it. Where are they?”

“I asked them to wait in the lobby,” she states, clearing her throat when the scuff of boots comes over Jared's shoulder. “But they clearly don't take direction very well.”

Jared turns to find Tommy and Demore, who has always scared Jared just a little more than he's comfortable admitting aloud. “Can I help you gentlemen?” he asks, watching the way they glare at Katie until he hears her sharp heels clicking away on the tile behind him.

“You need to come with us,” Demore says, his eyes narrowed, hands on his belt buckle.

Jared's first thought is that something happened to Jensen, but he can't imagine they'd come looking for him if that was the case. The club's not exactly his biggest fan. “I'm working,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest.

Tommy rolls his eyes and grabs Jared's shirt at his shoulder. He drags him a few feet away and says, “We have ourselves a little situation at the clubhouse, if you know what I mean, and we need some discreet help.”

“I can't leave,” Jared insists. He could; the surgery's over and he doesn't have another one scheduled today. He could fake a headache and take off easily, but he doesn't want to.

“I don't think you understand,” Tommy breathes, looking quickly at Demore and then back at Jared, his blue eyes wide and desperate. “Jensen needs you to do this, okay? Nobody's gonna get off his ass about you bein' back here if we don't know we can trust you.”

Jared's almost surprised by how much he means it when he says, “I don't really care if you trust me.”

“You're gonna wanna rethink that,” Tommy answers, taking his time in casting another look over his shoulder, where Demore is starting to look a little less patient than he did even five minutes ago. “Listen, the kinda history you guys have doesn't just go away, Jared. I don't really give a shit what either of you say.” He grabs Jared's elbow and lowers his voice even further. “There is a Brit bleedin' out in our garage and if you don't save his life, Jensen is a marked man.”

“What the hell were you doin' lettin' him near a fuckin' Brit in the first place, Tommy?” Jared has to catch himself before he shouts. He hates that he suddenly understands the severity of the situation without anymore back story.

He hates more that he knows he's going to go with them, even though Tommy only answers him with, “Meet us at the back entrance.”

Katie's eyebrow arches when Jared tells her that he's not feeling well and he's going to be leaving. “Are you fucking kidding me?” she huffs, crossing her arms and leaning her hip against the nurse's station. “Alright,” she nods in concession when Jared doesn't say any more. “Go. Feel better.”

He doesn't stick around to hear more, just grabs his keys and his wallet from the office and heads down to the back entrance.

“You gonna tell me what I'm walkin' into here?” he finally asks when they're nearly to the clubhouse.

Tommy opens his mouth, but it's Demore's voice that says, “No.”

With a roll of his eyes, Tommy guides the van toward the outskirts of town and says, “Just do what you do and don't ask any questions, okay?”

Jensen once told him, “ _Sometimes, it's what you don't know that keeps you alive._ ” Jared hasn't forgotten, but he has definitely pushed as much of it out of his head as he's been able to manage.

When they arrive at the clubhouse, Jeff is outside puffing on a cigar and looking as relaxed as ever. Jared can tell Jensen is about to crawl out of his skin, but he's keeping a cool exterior for his brothers.

Jared reaches for his bag but it's not at his side. In his mind, he can see it on the chair in the corner of the office. He's trying to cycle through anything they might have here that he can use to save someone's life when Jensen approaches, bill of his hat pulled low over his eyes as he squints against the sun.

“Hey,” Jensen greets quietly.

Something bubbles in Jared's chest, something angry and ugly. “Your son pulled through his surgery like a champ,” he says bitterly, hoping to hell that Jensen feels bad about leaving before it was over. He should feel bad.

Nodding, Jensen looks up. “Thank you.”

He might be talking about Rider's surgery. He might be talking about coming here. Jared doesn't know and he really just wants to get this over with so he can go home and sleep for a couple of hours before he has to take his mother to an appointment with a specialist in San Antonio tomorrow.

“Come on,” Jensen says, gesturing with his shoulder as he turns and makes his way toward the clubhouse. “I was aimin' for a flesh wound, but Misha says he's bleedin' like I hit an artery,” he explains over his shoulder.

It's so matter-of-fact, so 'oh, I think I accidentally fired a kill shot,' that Jared feels his stomach churning. His job, his calling in life, is to save people, to heal them from sickness and disease and injury. There is nothing about this situation that feels remotely right to him, so why is he even here?

The stench of blood and whiskey hits Jared's nose as soon as he walks through the garage door. Aldis, Tommy, and Misha are gathered around a lanky man who appears to be passed out on a work bench. Chad is holding a makeshift, blood-soaked tourniquet tight on the guy's thigh, but Jared doubts it's doing much good.

“Hey, Doc,” Mike greets with a grin, tipping a beer bottle to his lips as though they're just sitting around, catching a game together. “Seems we got ourselves a bit of a situation here.”

Rolling his eyes, Jared casts a glance around the room and then turns his attention to Jensen. “You guys have any supplies around here at all?”

Jensen nods to the meager offering on the bench next to Misha. It could be worse. A quick visual inventory tells Jared that this is not the first time these guys have patched up a bullet wound in-house. They have everything he needs, though he's going to have to be careful. There's no room for error here.

“Alright, fellas. Clear out. Give Jared some room,” Jensen orders.

The guys obey without question, leaving Jared alone with Jensen. “I don't get it,” Jared says, heading over to the utility sink to scrub his hands as best he can. “Why not just let him bleed out and get rid of the body?”

Jensen huffs and sinks to one of the stools beside the bench. “Wish I could, man. I'd give anything to be able to burn this British bastard's rotting corpse.” There's venom saturating every syllable, his eyes growing dark and cold at the mere mention of the club that Jensen has hated for the better part of twenty years. “But Sebastian here is the Brit VP. Too many guys saw me pull that trigger today. Shit like that doesn't go unpunished. Savin' his life might be seen as a goodwill gesture.”

Even as the words are coming out of his mouth, Jared can tell that Jensen doesn't mean them. “That Jeff's idea?”

Jensen stands angrily as Jared snaps a pair of latex gloves onto his hands and reaches for the antiseptic. “This big deal he's been workin' on? Told me today it's with Sheppard. Says we're gonna get better guns and maintain our own territory without interference if we protect the Brits' free rein outside our borders.”

Nodding, Jared sets about examining the wound he's working with. The bullet isn't all that deep, but it's lodged in Sebastian's femoral artery. “I'm not sure I can get it out without killing him with the supplies you've got here,” he says with a heavy sigh.

Jensen runs a hand over his face and lets out a long sigh. “Can you patch him up without removing it?”

“You want your bullet stuck in this guy's ass? That the smartest move?”

“Ballistics ain't the problem,” Jensen says with a sarcastic chuckle. “Gun's nothin' special. Cops can't tie it back to me.”

He doesn't have to finish the explanation for Jared to know that the law's never been all that threatening to Jensen. It's the other crew, the Brits, that scare him, and with good reason. If Jared remembers correctly, they have a flair for the poetic. Killing Jensen would be downright artistic.

Working in silence, Jared manages to stop the bleeding and do a rough stitch job. It's pure, dumb luck that they got Jared here when they did; that tourniquet was well on its way to killing circulation for good and Jared is not prepared to perform an amputation today.

“He'll live,” Jared announces when he's finished. “Get me a ride back to the hospital and I'll get you some painkillers for when he wakes up. He'll pull through.” When Jensen offers him the whiskey bottle, Jared doesn't hesitate to take a long chug.

Jensen's gaze is intense when he stares Jared down. Jared doesn't want to hear another thank you, but when Jensen speaks, he says, “I'm sorry, Jay.”

The years have deepened and graveled his voice, but the tone is the same and it shoots directly to Jared's heart just like it used to, causing tears to well in his eyes before he can stop them. Blinking, he shrugs and says nothing.

“I mean, you had enough shit on your plate with your mom, and then I brought Danni and Rider to your doorstep and now this? You deserve better than that.”

The war between what he should say and what he should keep to himself wages in Jared's head for a long moment before he decides to just say, “So do you.”

For the first time today, Jensen gives Jared a real, genuine smile. Every time Jared used to think that he was out, this smile was the thing that pulled him back in and he hates it. “There is nothing better than this for me.”

Second verse, same as the first. Third and fourth verses, too. The song never changes with Jensen and Jared still can't bring himself to give up the tiny bit of hope that he might be able to get through to him now.

“And for your son?”

Jensen's shoulders fall, the fight deflating before Jared's eyes. He scrubs a hand over his face and, for the first time in the last week, Jared sees honesty. Jensen has never tried to hide who he is, but he wears his tough-guy armor more often than not.

“I want him to have a great, comfortable life and to grow up knowing that he can do whatever he wants.” With a small shrug, he says, “Bein' a Brother has a few drawbacks, I guess, conventionally speaking. We don't exactly live by convention, though, ya know?” He gives a small smile and adds, “Who knows? Maybe by the time he's old enough to ride, things'll be different.”

It's a pleasant thought, in theory. The problem is that Jensen's dad probably said the same thing when he was born. “Shit doesn't just change, Jensen,” Jared finally says after they've stared at one another long enough to make things uncomfortable. “Somebody's gotta steer it in the right direction.”

Jensen looks down at the toe of his sneaker and Jared doesn't feel like hanging around to see what kind of excuse Jensen comes up with next.

He's nearly to the door when he hears Jensen's throat clear behind him. “We're havin' a little get together Friday. You should stop by, let us thank you the right way.” His walls are back up, hint of a cocky smirk firmly in place.

Even as he leaves without accepting or rejecting the offer, Jared knows that he's not coming back. He can't party with the club like old times because these aren't old times and they never will be.

  


  


Jensen's father returned from Vietnam in 1973, more unsure of his future at the age of twenty-two than he had been when he left at the naïve and wide-eyed age of eighteen. The only thing, it seemed, that war hadn't changed was his certainty that he wasn't cut out to be a nine-to-five drone for his father's chain of neighborhood burger diners.

He found his passion in a 1957 Harley Panhead, which he bought from a mechanic that lived up the road from his parents and who introduced him to a group of World War II vets who, like himself, had issues with government and social standards. The by-laws of this outlaw crew inspired Jensen's dad, along with Jim and five other Rangers from their platoon, to start the Brothers in Arms.

It was about rebellion and mayhem and doing whatever the hell they wanted, whenever they wanted, without fear of repercussions. It was about anarchy and freedom. Sure, it scared people – Jensen's grandparents, most notably – but they didn't care because it worked for them and that was all that mattered.

Jensen remembers his father telling him that the MC wasn't about making money. Back then, they built a large commune behind what is now the Brothers clubhouse, and the cost of living was kept low enough that they could strong-arm a few businesses in town into paying a protection cost to cover them. It wasn't until Jeff and the other new recruits showed up in the mid-80's with higher standards of living that the idea of gun-running was introduced. Most of the founding members were either imprisoned or dead at that point and Jim convinced Jensen's dad that their only choice was to change with the times or abandon the club all together.

Abandoning the club was never really a choice, though.

As Jensen watches Jeff conduct business from the head of the table, he can't help wondering if his dad would look as weathered and tired as Jim does right now. Jensen was only twelve when his father died so he doesn't remember enough, but that hollow, vacant, apathetic look in his father's eyes for the last couple years of his life still haunts Jensen to this day.

“ _What about for your son?_ ” Jared asked him earlier.

Jensen's dad loved this club at least as much as Jensen loves Rider, like a father does his rowdy, wayward sons, and wanted something different for it than this. Jensen had a sense of it back then, when the memories were stronger and he could recall bits and pieces of conversations his parents would have when they thought Jensen was asleep. He let go of them when Jared left, though, taking with him Jensen's ridiculous teenage fantasies.

“Misha, I want you to take Chad and Mikey and go make that drop to The Bastard Sons,” Jeff instructs.

The Bastard Sons are notorious crank runners out of San Antonio and Jensen is not a fan. Jeff graduated from high school with their leader, a mouthy guy named Speight, so they're fairly friendly with the club. As long as they stay out of Jeff's way, Jeff doesn't mind helping them out when they need it. Jensen doesn't remember voting to deal with them this time, but it could have happened while he was out in the garage with Jared. The day's been too long to worry about it right now.

Jeff lights the end of a cigar and leans back in his chair before continuing. “Chris, Aldis, Tommy, Jim, and Demore, you're with me. We'll take Roche in there back to Sheppard's warehouse and smooth out any wrinkles that bullet in his ass might have caused to our tenuous agreement with The Brits.”

A quick inventory around the table tells Jensen that everyone is accounted for. Everyone except, “What about me?”

The look Jeff gives him is the long-suffering gaze of a father who is tired of his little boy asking inane questions. “I don't think taking you into the camp that you opened fire on in the first place is a good idea. Besides, your son just got out of surgery. Go see him.”

Jeff bangs his gavel against the table and the crew starts to dissipate immediately. Jensen stays at the table, staring at Jeff in disbelief until they're alone again.

“What the hell is going on?” Jensen demands.

Running a hand over his short-cropped hair, Jeff shakes his head and and stands, stretching and twisting until his spine pops. “You don't trust the Brits, Jensen, and I get that.” Off of Jensen's disbelieving look, he says, “What? You think I don't remember what they did to your old man? I'm the one that found him out there in the middle of the desert with six bullet holes in the back of his head, remember?” His shoulders stiffen defensively when Jensen stands. “But he's the one that taught me that the club always comes first and I am doing what I think is best for this club.”

Jensen's hands ball into fists at his sides. His dad and Jeff never did see eye-to-eye on what was best for this club and Jensen, over the years, has convinced himself that it doesn't matter. In the last week, though, he's starting to wonder if maybe his dad is the one who had the right idea, if maybe a little less violence and a little more bloodless mayhem is a better way.

“Listen,” Jeff continues, taking a step forward to rest his hand on Jensen's shoulder, “This ain't about pride and preservation for Sheppard. You know he's only about the bottom line and that makes him way too fucking dangerous for us to take him on. Best we can do for this family is to keep him out and if shaking hands with the devil himself is what I've gotta do to make that happen, it's what I'm gonna do.”

The bitch of it is that Jensen knows Jeff is right. Sheppard works both sides of the system – dirty hands do his heavy lifting and white collars line his silken pockets – to achieve his end goal. His philosophy is exactly the opposite of The Brothers and, in a society driven by profit margins and progress, Sheppard will win every time. Brute force will never stop him; it doesn't matter if they call in every chapter within a five-state radius. His connections with the ATF and the FBI ensure that he's as safe as he can possibly be for the time being.

It doesn't change the fact that Jensen will hate him and his crew until the day he dies.

“I'm goin' with Misha,” Jensen finally says with a nod of concession.

Jeff stamps his cigar out in the ash tray on the table and shrugs. “Do what you gotta do, son.”

 

 

Speight is not all that big and he smirks a lot; Jensen's always considered him the picture of over-compensation.

“Good to see ya, fellas,” Speight greets, flanked by three of his flunkeys when the Brothers dismount their bikes and secure their helmets over their handlebars. “Jensen, I hear congratulations are in order.”

Jensen accepts the hand that Speight offers when he steps forward. “Thanks, man.”

“Rumor had it the little guy had a rough going for a few days. He okay now?”

The hairs on the back of Jensen's neck stand up, a red flag flying and a foghorn of warning sounding at the back of his head but he tries to suppress it and keep his cool with a nod of his head. “He's in good hands.”

The thug to Speight's left snorts and Speight throws him a glare. They guy just shrugs and looks back at Jensen. “What? It's a compliment.”

“Hey,” Speight snaps, eyes trained on Jensen for his next move. “We're not here to judge whose hands or mouths have been where.” His smile is probably supposed to be reassuring. “Free love is beautiful, Jensen. Don't matter if there's two cocks involved or not.”

Jensen's gun is out of his waistband and clenched tightly in both of his hands before he can stop the impulse.

“Whoah there, Cowboy,” Mike says, reaching out to grip Jensen's wrist until Jensen lowers his hands. Training his eyes on Speight, he says, “Dude's been under a lotta stress lately, man. Please don't provoke him with lame ass cocksucking jokes. Seems like a stupid reason to get your brain blown out, ya know.” Then he huffs a short laugh and turns to Jensen. “I said you'll _blow_ his brains out. That's kinda fuckin' punny.”

“Don't make me shoot you, too, Rosey,” Jensen grits, taking a step back when Misha takes one forward and holds his hand out.

“You got the cash?” he asks, more no-nonsense than Jensen is used to seeing him.

Speight withdraws a fat white envelope and raises an eyebrow. “I gotta see it first,” he says cordially. “You know the rules, boys.”

Misha nods toward Chad, who has been respectably silent since they arrived. He steps forward and produces a wooden cigar box from behind his back. “It's all there,” he says and then steps back as though he's trying not to be noticed.

Jensen clenches the handle of his gun tighter, knowing in an instant exactly what is going on here.

He's not, though. Almost immediately, he pulls one of the baggies Jensen told Aldis to flush the other day out of the box and holds it up with a questioning stare. “Seriously? You guys are gonna try to sell my own shit back to me? What the fuck kinda set up is this?”

Alright, so Speight might be a tiny, little joke in Jensen's head but he doesn't take kindly to being ripped off. The box clatters to the ground and all four of The Bastards have their guns pulled in the blink of an eye.

The Brothers respond in kind, Jensen's heart hammering in his chest.

“It's a friendly warning,” Misha says, jaw flexing as he tightens his grip on his gun. “Brits are movin' into your territory real soon, Speight. You're gonna wanna keep the friends you've got. Shit in our yard again, it'll be the last thing you do. We clear?”

Speight seems confused for a second and then Jensen can see the meaning behind Misha's words settling in. With one hand up, he stows his gun in the holster on his hip and slowly stoops to take the envelope of cash he dropped to the ground with the cigar box.

He steps directly to Jensen and extends the envelope. “I swear to you I did not know they were sellin' it to her.”

Jensen keeps his eyes on Speight when he fires the shot that sinks deep into the gut of the mouthy guy on the left, the one he now knows sold Danneel the fix that nearly killed her and Rider. “I don't want your money,” he says, his tone dangerously low as he tucks his gun back into his pants and stalks back to his bike.

_Do what you gotta do, son._

There won't be another shot fired; everyone out here understands retaliation and Jensen has to silently send a thanks to Jeff for affording Jensen the opportunity to have his.

 

 

The clubhouse is packed to capacity and then some by the time Jensen gets there around nine on Friday. Brothers and friends, women Jensen wouldn't recognize with their clothes on, they all crawl out of the woodwork when Sam throws a party.

There's a cold beer in his hand before he hits the front door, Tommy and Mike greeting him with half-hugs as he makes his way toward the bar, following his nose to the scent of Sam's infamous Buffalo burgers, fresh from the grill out back. The floor is vibrating with the beat of the song playing over the speakers and a few of the girls have started early, taking their turns on the stripper pole at the far end of the room, though it doesn't appear any of them have really started trying to put on a show yet.

Sam is standing behind the bar, Leah and a couple of the other wives and girlfriends – the women who keep their clothes on around here – mixing drinks and making sure that everyone has a full stomach, a full glass, and a good time.

“Hey, stranger,” Sam grins when Jensen leans over the bar to drop a kiss on her cheek. “What took ya so long?”

Jensen just adjusts the hat on his head and takes the plate she's offering him, burger already dressed just the way he likes it with lettuce and blue cheese, before he drops onto one of the stools at the bar. “Slept longer than I planned,” he answers. “Thought it'd be good to wash some of that road stench off, too.”

She chuckles, disappearing behind the bar and popping back with a toss of her blond curls over her shoulder. “You wanna trade me?” she asks, offering him a tumbler full of ice and whiskey in exchange for his half-empty beer bottle.

Sometimes Jensen forgets how young Sam really is; she's been taking care of him since he was just a kid so it's easy to think of her as his mother, even though she's only about eight years older than he is. With only a few more laugh lines around her eyes, Sam still resembles that twenty year old girl, the one who started hanging around the club before she was legal, who married Jeff right out of high school against pretty much the entire club's advice.

Now that she's been the family matriarch for so long, Jensen doubts anyone really remembers those tenuous early years.

He throws the tumbler back and grabs the burger from his plate when the look on Sam's face stops him from taking the first bite. “What?” he asks.

“What the hell is he doing here?” she asks, one hand on her hip while she narrows her eyes to someone over Jensen's shoulder.

He spins on the stool and freezes.

Staring at the wall of mug shots, back turned to Jensen and shoulders drooping in exhaustion, is Jared. Dressed in his dark blue scrubs – Jensen can see the faint trace of a blood spatter curling around his left thigh – he seems to be focused on Jensen's baby-faced smile from his first trip to Club Med, otherwise known as the State Prison. He's been there three times since, never for more than a few months at a time, but none of those pictures are as pretty and mock-worthy so none of them make the wall.

Pushing his plate away, Jensen stands and runs his hands over the thighs of his baggy jeans. He never thought, not in a million years, that Jared would actually show up tonight. The fact that he has makes Jensen nervous.

“Hey,” he greets, stomach dropping when Jared turns to him wordlessly, his eyes bloodshot, swollen, and red-rimmed. “Fuck, Jared, is it-,” he stammers, unable to bring himself to say Rider's name.

Jared shakes his head, though, and hugs his long arms over his own chest. “He's fine,” he nods, taking a deep breath that Jensen recognizes as one of Jared's oldest composure techniques. “I, uh, checked on him before I left and he's,” his breath hitches again and he closes his eyes, tightening his hands on his own biceps. “He looks great,” he finally manages.

Though his heart just jumped in relief, Jensen feels it plummet again when he realizes that there is only one thing that would bring Jared here during a party in this state. He clamps a reassuring hand over Jared's shoulder and guides him toward the hall.

“Gimme a second. Wait here,” Jensen says, leaving Jared long enough to run to the bar and grab an unopened bottle of Jack from the wall behind Sam. She turns, but Jensen just shakes his head and says, “Later.”

Inside Jensen's room at the end of the hall, he locks the door and by the time he turns back around, Jared is sinking to the edge of Jensen's mattress with a vacant look in his eyes.

“I was supposed to take her back to San Antonio tomorrow. Some experimental chemo thing that her oncologist said might work. I got home and-,” Jared chokes back a painful sob that shoots right through Jensen's chest. “She looked so peaceful. Like she was just sleeping.”

Crossing to him, sitting on the bed at his side and pulling Jared against his chest is instinctive for Jensen. He would do it for any of his brothers and no matter how hard he tries to deny it, Jared is still family. Holding the back of his neck and his trembling shoulders, Jensen holds Jared steady and lets him cry.

Seconds pass, maybe minutes or an hour for all Jensen knows. He can hear the party raging just a few feet away but it doesn't matter anymore. “Let it out,” he whispers against Jared's hair when he feels the resistance starting to build in Jared's shoulders. “It's alright, man. I gotcha.”

The words seem to startle Jared, causing him to pull back and search Jensen's face with wide eyes. His lips barely move when he says, “I shouldn't have come here.”

Jensen holds his face in both hands and shakes his head. “Hey, it's okay,” he promises, unwilling to admit, even to himself, just how glad he is that Jared came to him with this.

When he forces a soft smile and rubs his thumb along the wet tear track under Jared's eye, Jared bats his hand away. “Nothing is okay,” Jared snaps, jumping to his feet to tear his fingers through his hair. “All I keep thinking is that I want the kinda retaliation you guys go after when somebody hurts one of yours. She didn't do anything. She didn't hurt anyone, ever, and I want someone to pay for what happened.” His eyes are wild, unfocused, when he turns them toward Jensen. “I wish to fuck I could blame you for this, for makin' me deal with your stupid bullshit instead of sitting with her, being with her until the very last second.”

For what it's worth, Jensen wishes the same thing. He gets the overwhelming rage and the uncontrollably violent feeling that comes from being completely powerless, from knowing that, even if Jared had been right there at his mother's side instead of at the hospital with Rider, she would have died anyway. There's nothing he and his expensive medical degree could have done to stop it.

When Jared falls silent, looking lost and confused and just so damn broken, Jensen fishes his keys from his pocket and nods toward the door. “C'mon. Let's go for a ride.”

  


  


Jared got into his first fight in fifth grade when Cody Whitaker told their whole class that he saw Jared's mom riding a motorcycle like a big dyke over the weekend. Jared hardly got a punch in before Mrs. Carrillo broke it up and sent them both to the principal's office.

_On his way home that day, Jensen sidled up to Jared and asked, “Is it true, what Cody said?” like they were best friends, even though they'd never really spoken to each other._

_Jared shrugged and kept looking straight ahead while he walked. “About the bike,” he finally admitted. “She's not the other thing he said, though.” His cheeks flushed and he couldn't bring himself to say the world aloud._

Jensen didn't even seem to notice, instead plowing over Jared's clarification to ask him a hundred questions about the bike that Jared couldn't answer. For the first five years of their friendship, Jared was never truly convinced that Jensen wasn't using him for access to his mom and her damn Sportster.

For his sixteenth birthday, Jared got an '89 FLH from his mom and a blow job in the garage from Jensen. That's when Jared decided that Jensen probably liked him a little more than his mom, but probably not as much as that bike.

The FLH hasn't left the garage much in the last few years. Before she got too weak, Jared's mom used to run it once a week to make sure it didn't rust out. When Jared came home, she made him do it. He didn't really want to, hadn't been missing it at all, but it was the only thing she asked him to do and he couldn't bring himself to refuse.

Tonight is the first time he's taken it off of her street since he was in high school and he's not even sure why he chose it over his car this time. He thought he was just going to drive around for awhile to clear his head, but maybe he knew where he would end up.

Now that he's tailing Jensen through the streets, he's glad he brought it. When he left, it was just one more thing that would remind him of Jensen, one more thing that he didn't want to face every day, but he also managed to forget how much he loves the feeling of the wind in his face and the power that comes from knowing he's in control of this roaring machine. It's never been the obsession for him that it is for Jensen, but it's definitely not the evil thing he used to try to believe it was.

Jared knows that this is Jensen's house when they pull into the driveway, though he didn't spend a lot of time here in his youth. Jensen's parents died not long after Jared and Jensen started hanging out together and then they were always at Jeff and Sam's house, not this one.

“You need a tune-up,” Jensen says over his shoulder as he leads the way up the path to the front door, twirling his key ring around his finger.

Opening his mouth to respond, Jared finds that words catch in his throat. Every time a thought starts to form, it dissipates like smoke. Every time he starts to think that he's getting himself back under control, it slips away from him like water rushing between his fingers.

He follows Jensen through the living room and down into the basement where the spartan décor makes the room feel more like a cave than the rec room it used to be. All of the carpet has been ripped up and the terrible wallpaper is gone, too. There's a bench press where the couch used to be and free weights in place of the old Foosball table.

Jensen crosses to the heavy bag, hanging where the television was, and cups his hand in invitation. “You wanna take it out on someone? Come on. Right here.”

Jared rips his shirt over his head and drops it to the floor, hands clenching into fists and relaxing at his sides while he stalks toward the heavy bag, tension and anger and emotions he doesn't have the energy to compartmentalize anymore erupting. Bypassing the bag, he backs Jensen up to the wall and stares at the wide-eyed expression on his face.

“I didn't come here to punch a goddamn bag,” he hisses through his teeth.

It's not something he's given extensive thought to or allowed himself to analyze but as the words come out, Jared knows they're true. There is only one person he wanted to see when his world fell apart this afternoon and only one reason he came to find that person.

Jensen doesn't ask another question. Gripping the back of Jared's head, he steps forward, pressing his chest to Jared as he crushes their mouths together, brutally kissing him while yanking at the drawstring of Jared's scrubs.

Hands braced against the wall on both sides of Jensen's shoulders, Jared drops his head back when Jensen pushes the pants over Jared's hips and spits into the palm of his own hand. It's not sexy but when he wraps a firm fist around Jared's dick and starts to stroke it in harsh, measured strokes, Jared groans anyway. It won't last long, but it's not supposed to.

For the first time in weeks, Jared's not thinking about right and wrong and ten thousand other things. He's not thinking about anything beyond the warm press of Jensen's hand, the hot breath Jensen is panting against his throat, and the tightening in his balls. When Jensen twists his wrist and flicks his thumb over the head of Jared's dick, he stops thinking about anything at all.

It rips through him, rumbling through his chest, erupting from his throat and echoing off the bare walls of this dungeon, combined with the filthy, low encouragement of Jensen's grunted words.

Maybe it's that he's been tied up in knots for weeks now or maybe it's just that Jensen is really fucking good at this, but Jared feels his knees buckling, every muscle giving up every inch of ground they've been holding since Jared crossed the border back into this town, back into this life. The floor is cold and rough against him when Jared collapses against it, his head falling against Jensen's thigh as he chuckles to himself about the absurdity of this night.

He can feel the dirt sticking to his skin when he rolls onto his back and blinks the sweat from his eyes. Jensen sits, sneaker nudging Jared's side. Jared looks over to find Jensen's eyes fixed on the grim reaper tattooed along Jared's ribs.

Before Jensen asks, before Jared has to revisit all the times he's considered getting the damn thing removed and chose not to, Jensen sighs and says, “We should get you to bed.”

They should, but Jensen doesn’t move until Jared makes his way to his feet, still a little unsteady, and brushes the dirt from his ass. Jensen leads the way through the halls and Jared follows dutifully. He should just leave now – he already got what he came for – but when Jensen peels his tee shirt over his head and steps out of his jeans in the hallway, Jared is slammed with a memory of curling into bed with Jensen once upon a time.

_"What are you doing" Jared asked, barely pushing his covers out of the way to see Jensen sitting at his desk by the window._

_With a huff, Jensen ran a hand over his head and stared intently at the open text book in front of him. “I have no idea.”_

_It wasn't unusual to wake up and find that his mom had let Jensen into the house after Jared had already fallen asleep for the night, but that didn't make it any less weird. “Why are you doing it in my room?”_

_“Because you're here, buttercup” Jensen said, twisting his body in the chair enough to pucker his lips and bat his eyelashes in the dull light from the desk lamp._

_“Very romantic,” Jared laughed, rolling his eyes and flopping back down to pull the covers over his head. “It's two thirty in the morning,” he added with a groan, though he was pretty sure Jensen already knew that._

_Jensen made a garbled sound of affirmation, followed by the tapping of a pen against the pages of his notebook. At least, that's what Jared thought the sound was. He wasn't about to open his eyes to find out._

_“You have better highlighters than I do,” Jensen offered as his second excuse._

_Sighing, Jared rolled into the center of the bed and turned his face toward the ceiling. “Ya know, it's okay to say you missed me."_

_"Shut up," Jensen fired back and Jared heard the shuffle of socks against the carpet. "Scoot over."_

_Jensen slid into the bed as Jared rolled back onto his side and let Jensen tuck in behind him. He wasn't all that great at sleeping with another person but it didn't matter when Jensen was kissing the back of his neck like that._

Even though he knows he should go, Jared follows Jensen without hesitation.

 

 

“What happens now?”

Jared's limbs are heavy with exhaustion, his brain sluggish. “I gotta head back to the hospital in the morning, try to make arrangements between rounds, I guess.”

Jensen's calloused fingers resting on Jared's thigh beneath the sheets stop Jared's mundane laundry list from growing any longer. “You know that's not what I mean,” he says.

Just as surely as Jared knows Jensen is staring at his profile, he knows what Jensen wants to talk about. And he knows that, if he turns his head right now, if he meets Jensen's eye, he's going to make promises neither of them are ready to keep. He blinks at the ceiling instead.

“The other day, my mom told me that maybe the reason she got sick was so I would be here when you needed me. Maybe that was my sign that she was taking a turn for the worst.”

It's a lame joke, one that nearly makes him cry when Jensen threads their fingers together and rubs his thumb over Jensen's knuckles. “D'you know your mom used to date Jim?”

“What?” It's so absurd that Jared has to laugh.

But Jensen just clears his throat. “After you left, she used to make me lunch sometimes. She told me all these stories about my mom and dad back in high school, about Jim and about how they all were back before the war. To hear her talk about him, man? I don't know, I think she really loved him. He pushed her away until she couldn’t stick around anymore, but I think it was real.”

It makes so much sense that Jared doesn't even consider that Jensen might be making this up for any reason. She never married Jared's dad, never shed a tear when he left on Jared's fourth birthday, never really even dated anyone else. It also explains why she always loved Jensen so much, why she didn't complain or worry about Jared hanging around with him, why she was so sure that Jared would come back to be with Jensen someday. Jared always figured it was because she saw them as some kind of modern-day Beauty and the Beast; he was never quite sure which of them she saw as the Beast.

The idea of her telling Jensen all of the things she could never tell Jared, sharing a life with him that Jared didn't understand and didn't want to be a part of, stings. “I didn't know.”

“I think it helped both of us stay sane without you here.” Jensen brings their joined hands up to hold them loosely against his chest. “She hung out until Danni moved in.”

Someday, he might want to know more about this woman Jensen knew, the mother Jared never got a chance to meet, but for now, it's just too painful. “I have a standing invite back in Boston, whenever I'm ready to go back,” he blurts in an effort to make the pounding against his ribs stop. It doesn't work. “I'm not even thinking about leaving until Rider's home, though, so you don't have to worry about that. I told you I'd take care of him and I will.”

Jensen just throws his leg over Jared's, high enough to be suggestive if his voice didn't sound so damn vulnerable. “Until then?”

It has to be said, but it still rips through his throat like skin on barbed wire. “It's only going to get worse if we don't stop it now.” He pulls his hand back and scratches his fingers against his stomach. “You've got too much goin' on right now. My next couple of weeks are going to be packed. By then, Rider should be-”

Jensen cuts him off by rolling to his side and catching Jared's face with one hand, staring until Jared has no choice but to meet his eyes. They're wide and hopeful and the look punches Jared directly in the gut. “I don't wanna stop it now.”

It's a raw, naked, honest confession; Jared can only respond by closing the distance between them and kissing Jensen like it's the first, possibly the last, time.

 

 

The clock beside the bed reads seven o’clock when Jared startles awake, tangled in thin sheets and alone. Jensen’s side of the bed is still warm; Jared can hear him fumbling around in the kitchen. Jensen always thought he was more proficient at breakfast than any other meal, though that’s not saying much if you ask Jared.

Getting out of the bed takes more effort this morning than it has in a long time. His body is stretched and worn in ways it hasn’t been in years, physically and emotionally. By the time he splashes water on his face and swishes some toothpaste around in his mouth, he feels just human enough to pull his dirty scrubs back on and head out.

“Morning, Princess,” Jensen greets happily, standing at the stove where far too much smoke is rising from the pan in front of him.

Unfortunately, Jared can’t comment on that, or the way Jensen’s jeans ride low on his hips, exposing the long, clean line of his bare back and the angry, hollow-eyed skull tattooed there, because Sam is sorting freshly-washed baby socks at the kitchen table and looking none-to-happy with Jared’s half-naked presence. The fact that he entered gingerly from the direction of Jensen’s bedroom probably doesn’t help.

“Morning,” Jared finally says, wiping sleep from his eyes as Jensen crosses to him and gives him a warm, lingering kiss. “You taste like charcoal,” he says, face twisting. It’s not Jensen’s usual smoky taste – Jared learned to like that by association back in high school – but something more bitter and, well, burnt.

Jensen returns to the stove and grabs a strip of blackened bacon from a plate on the counter, popping it into his mouth. “I like it well-done.”

“You just can’t admit there’s something you are very, very bad at,” Sam teases, pushing the laundry basket aside to stand. “Jared, Jensen told me about your mom.” She actually looks genuinely concerned as she crosses to Jensen and pushes him out of the way with her hip. “I’m so sorry, Sweetie.”

Confused by her sudden compassion, Jared loses his words when he opens his mouth to accept her condolences. She’s the only person he can confidently say hates him and now she’s appearing sincerely sympathetic; it’s creeping Jared out a little, frankly.

Jensen’s phone rings and he gives Jared a pat on the shoulder as he slips past on the way to his room. Jared finds himself alone with Sam and a very bad feeling.

“His wife’s in rehab, his baby’s in ICU, and he’s humming to himself and trying to cook.” She doesn’t sound angry or even disgusted, but the mask she was wearing a second ago is gone instantly when Jensen disappears. “It’s good you came to him, let him be there for you last night. It evens the score. He won’t feel like he owes you anything when you leave this time.”

Last night, Jared was sure that Boston was where he belonged, that returning as soon as his mom’s estate is sewn up was the right thing to do. Now that it’s also Sam’s opinion, he’s second-guessing. “Who says I’m going anywhere?”

Sliding the skillet from the burner, Sam props her hip against the stove and crosses her arms. “You didn’t want to be here when you didn’t know what else was out there. You expect me to believe you do now?”

How someone who has never left West Texas can be sure Jared loves life outside of it so much better, he doesn’t know, but he’s not going to give Sam the satisfaction of confirming her suspicions right now.

“You’re way too smart to think for a second that this is going to work. You’re gonna bail when you get shit settled in a few weeks and this tough-guy act he’s got goin’ is gonna fall apart. He’s going to shatter, Jared, and that cannot happen this time. He has a son to think about now.”

Jensen’s footsteps are heavy as he tromps back down the hall, stopping to rest his hands on Jared’s hips in the kitchen doorway – easy, comfortable, and familiar as ever – before he presses a quick kiss to his shoulder. “I gotta go meet with Jeff and Chris over at Whitfield’s office.”

Sam’s entire demeanor shifts, all of her attention now on Jensen. “What’s wrong?”

He gives Sam a shrug and then shoots Jared a knowing grin. “Not allowed to tell you. Take it up with your husband.” With a quick pat to Jared’s ass, he says, “Come on,” and they leave Sam stewing in the kitchen.

In the driveway, Jared finds himself backed up against the door of the garage, Jensen’s hands resting once again on his hips. “She give you shit while I was on the phone?”

Jared won’t lie but he’s not about to go crying to Jensen about whatever issues he and Sam have. “Nothin’ I can’t handle,” he finally said, hand loose around Jensen's neck.

He should be pulling away, should be putting up a wall and distance, but there’s so much sadness pressing in, so much loneliness, that holding on to Jensen feels like the only way to alleviate some of the pressure. Maybe he’ll regret it, but for now, he can’t, or won’t, fight it.

“I’ll swing by the hospital after my meeting. You need anything before that, you call me,” Jensen orders as though Jared is one of his lower-ranking brothers.

Rolling his eyes, Jared captures Jensen’s lower lip between. “I’m gonna be okay,” he promises, smiling as best he can without faking it or forcing it. “I’ll see you later.”

He pulls out of the driveway behind Jensen and they ride together until the road forks and Jared has to turn the opposite direction to head for home. Catching a glimpse of Jensen's back in his rear view sends an unexpected stab of emotion through Jared's gut.

He spends the entire drive telling himself to be rational, to think about this logically. Sam was right when she said that Jared couldn't wait to get out of this stupid town and move on to something bigger and better. He pins a lot of the blame on Jensen because staying here was the choice he made. Jared made his own choice, though; he could have stayed and he left anyway. He's always told himself that Jensen wanted the club more than he wanted Jared, but the truth is that Jared wanted a different life more than he wanted Jensen, too.

He tells himself that last night was just warm comfort on the heels of a crippling loss, but there was a reason he went to Jensen, a reason that had nothing to do with evening the score, no matter what Sam may think. It took twelve years for Jared to convince himself that his mother was the only family he had left. As soon as she was gone, the truth that he's been running from started screaming in his head and last night was about shutting that voice up, about proving that whatever fantasies he was harboring about Jensen were just pointless delusions.

Jensen knew, without Jared ever saying a word, exactly what was wrong last night. He knew what had happened and he knew why Jared had come to him. He didn't hesitate to throw his arms open and let Jared right back in, as though he'd just been waiting for Jared to wake up and realize it.

Tired and conflicted, Jared parks his bike in the garage and resolves to worry about Jensen later, when he's had a chance to shower and sleep and process his own grief.

  


  


The police have never intimidated Jensen like they do some people. Hell, getting arrested is practically a badge of honor for the Brothers. Being called into the chief's office still isn't the best way to start his day.

The best way to start his day is rolling over to find Jared all naked and sleeping peacefully on the other side of the bed. In fact, he's kind of glad he hasn't had the time to over-analyze what happened last night; it's kind of nice to have a few hours where he can just be happy that Jared is back and that their bodies are still as compatible as they ever were.

“You seem happy,” Jeff comments when they meet up in front of the station.

With a shrug, Jensen bites his lower lip to contain his smile but even he knows it's not really working. “It's a beautiful day, Jeffrey.”

“Yeah, we'll see,” Jeff says with a roll of his eyes as he grabs the station door and holds it open for Jensen.

They're greeted by the deputy on duty, a small but tough woman named Genevieve who is not Jensen's biggest fan. “He's waiting for you,” she says, arms crossed over her chest as she glares until they've passed.

It's probably fair, what with the way Jensen fucked her younger sister a few years back, but it wasn't like Jensen knew she was a virgin before it happened. Being as little sis is married now, Jensen figures it's time Genevieve get over it.

“Gentlemen,” Police Chief Malik Whitfield stands as Jeff wraps a knuckle against the door of his office.

Jensen follows Jeff's lead, taking one of the seats opposite Whitfield's desk and folding his hands against his stomach. He was trained early to default to his club President in situations like these; he's only here because Whitfield asked for both of them.

“So, I was out at the Gas 'N Go this morning and couldn't help noticing that sweet, little Delta Jamison has a couple of AK's stashed up under her counter. You two wouldn't know anything about that, would you?”

“Jensen?” Jeff asks, eyes trained on Whitfield. “You know anything about Delta Jamison havin' a couple AK's stashed up under the counter at the Gas 'N Go?”

Jensen knows that he sold them to Delta, the sixty-eight-year-old owner of the tiny, one-pump station on the edge of town, a couple of months ago. “Nope,” he answers with a hint of a smirk. He also knows he's not about to saunter into police headquarters and brag about it. “Jeff?”

“Yeah?”

“You know anything about Delta Jamison havin' a couple AK's stashed up under her counter at the Gas 'N Go?”

Jeff gives Whitfield the same smug grin that Jensen did. “No, son, I don't.”

For a long time, Whitfield just watches them, smile of amusement dancing on his lips. “So I guess you don't know anything about this call I got from some ATF agent this morning, either?” Jensen can feel Jeff stiffen just enough to be slightly concerned. “You're not armin' every ranch hand and small business owner in the county for an invasion? Know nothin' about Mark Sheppard movin' in, eatin' up the territory around this town?”

Jensen shifts slightly and shakes his head, back molars gritted against the 'I told you so' that so badly wants to fly in Jeff's direction.

“Even if I knew who that was,” Jeff starts, settling back into his seat with his shoulders shrugged, “I don't see what it would have to do with us.”

Whitfield leans forward, hands folded in front of him on his desk. “Cut the evasive bullshit, man. I don't give a fuck if you know the guy. Hell, I don't care if you're bangin' his wife on the side. All I give a shit about is keeping his big-time developer mentality outta my town and the ATF outta my office. This is your one and only warning, fellas, so listen up.” He taps his fingers against the desk as though their attention might be waning. “I look the other way on a lotta shit that goes on with The Brothers, but so help me, I will hold you personally responsible if this blows up on us. You wanna protect your club and protect your families, you will hold this shit together. Are we clear?”

The relationship between The Brothers and the law in this town is complicated. Jensen's dad grew up with the former Chief, Fred Lehne, and used that friendship to leverage freedom for the club back in the early days. They both shared a vision of keeping this town safe for their families so Lehne left them alone as long as the dangerous vices were kept outside the city borders. Drugs and prostitution have taken hold around them, but careful negotiation and a few fingers on a couple of triggers have formed a protective bubble around this place.

Though Whitfield isn't quite as lenient as Lehne used to be, his bottom line has always been the same. Jensen has always suspected that Whitfield knows the club has connections and alliances that he'll never be able to establish so he chooses to focus on the ends instead of the means. Jeff is out of his mind, though, if he ever considers Whitfield a friend of the club.

“Message received, Chief,” Jeff nods, bypassing a return threat in favor of standing and extending his hand across the desk.

Jensen does the same and then follows Jeff out of the station and into the blinding, afternoon sun. “What the hell, man?” he asks when they're across the street and out of earshot. “I thought the whole point of getting into bed with Sheppard was to avoid his connections with the Feds.”

Tugging his helmet off of his handlebars, Jeff just shakes his head and squints as he slides his dark sunglasses into place. “I don't know. Somethin' ain't right. Think our new partner and I need to sit down and have a little chat.”

 

 

As much as Jensen would like to be there when Jeff sits down with Sheppard, he knows it's not the smartest move. He doesn't know the details, but Sheppard was involved in his father's murder somehow. It seems unlikely, but Jensen is still clinging to the fantasy that he'll be able to avoid a face-to-face with the guy forever.

Instead of sitting around the clubhouse or pretending to work at the garage, Jensen heads to the hospital to spend some quality time with his son. He's starting to find that there's nothing that little face can't make infinitely better.

Sam is sitting next to the incubator when Jensen enters, hair piled on top of her head as she rocks in the glider and reads a small, colorful book aloud.

“' _You have been my friend,' replied Charlotte. 'That in itself is a tremendous thing. I wove my webs for you because I liked you. After all, what’s a life, anyway? We’re born, we live a little while, we die. A spider’s life can’t help being something of a mess, with all this trapping and eating flies. By helping you, perhaps I was trying to lift up my life a trifle. Heaven knows anyone’s life can stand a little of that._ '.” Sam's voice dips lower when she reads, “' _Well,' said Wilbur. 'I’m no good at making speeches. I haven’t got your gift for words. But you have saved me, Charlotte, and I would gladly give my life for you—I really would._ '.”

“Jesus, Sam,” Jensen interrupts with a smile. “Think maybe you should read him something with a little less ominous, looming death?”

Sam gives him a wry look. “We're already past that part,” she says, setting the old, battered copy of _Charlotte's Web_ on the table at her side. “Jared said they're talking about taking him out of the incubator at the end of the week.”

It's hard to tell by looking at Rider that he's doing any better. There are still too many cords and machines for Jensen's liking and the board above his bed says that he's only gained about two-tenths of a pound. Still, hearing that he might be closer to the edge of the woods makes Jensen smile bigger than anything else has this week.

Just like every other time he's taken more than a second to really look at his son, he feels the tears welling up in his eyes. _But you have saved me, Charlotte, and I would gladly give my life for you – I really would._

Sam's hand is warm on his cheek when she wipes the tear that falls. “He's gonna be fine,” she promises in a soft whisper that brings to mind his father's funeral and the time Tom took a near-fatal shot to the neck a few years ago. “You're both gonna be fine.”

“It was my choice, ya know? Bringing him home with me last night. I coulda kept him at the clubhouse and let him drink himself to sleep. I knew what I was doing.”

The words hang there for a minute and Sam takes a deep breath before she steps back and lowers herself into the rocking chair again. Jensen didn't take so kindly to her maternal advice when Jared left the first time so it's understandable that she's hesitant to get into it again, he supposes, but Jensen didn't need Jared's confirmation to know that she was just faking the hospitality for Jensen's benefit this morning.

“Are you sure?” When Jensen tears his attention from Rider and turns toward her, Sam gives him a weary smile. “Now that his mother is gone, there is nothing keeping him here, Jensen.”

Jensen sighs, runs a hand over his face, and says, “This isn't like it was back then, okay? I'm not the same. He's not my whole world now.”

“I get that you loved him, that maybe you still do. But, Jensen, think about this,” Sam pleads. “You have got a son in intensive care. The club is in a transitional period and you guys are making a lot of tough calls. You're stressed and I'm sure you're lonely, son, but-”

“What?” Jensen interrupts with a raised hand and a determined shake of his head. “Look, I've been denying it since the day he came back, but everybody knows I'm full of shit, Sam. I don't know, maybe you're right. Maybe I have been trying to fill some kind of void, but it's not because Danneel's not here. It was never about her.”

The kicker is that Jensen knows that Sam doesn't like Danneel, either. He remembers her telling him once that she was never going to like anyone he brought home, was never going to think any of them were good enough for him, and he appreciated the sentiment. It gave him a sense of freedom, knowing that he wasn't going to win her approval; it gave him permission to stop trying.

“Look,” Jensen says, giving Sam a soft smile as he crosses to her and rests a hand on the top of her head, “I don't know if Jared's going to stick around or not, but let him make that call for himself, okay? I'd really rather you didn't push him out of town yourself.”

She rolls her eyes and begrudgingly nods. “I'm not gonna like him.”

“Good,” Jensen winks, moving his hand to her neck and giving it a quick squeeze. “Cause then I'd have to stop liking him and he's a really fantastic lay.”

As if on cue, Jared enters the room and looks surprised to see Jensen. “Oh, hey,” he greets, eyes darting back and forth between Jensen and Sam. “Am I interrupting something?”

Sam just shakes her head and covers Jensen's hand on her shoulder with her own. “I think Jensen was about to start telling me what he likes best about your dick,” she says dryly.

“Oh,” Jared answers, his face twisting in uncomfortable confusion. “Well, that's not awkward at all.”

Sam stands, chuckling, and grabs her purse. “Alright, boys, I'm off to the spa with Leah.” She grabs Jensen's chin and kisses his cheek. “Do you wanna come over for dinner tonight?”

Jensen's eyes dart to the way Jared is trying to look busy with Rider's charts. “I'll let you know,” he says, hugging her again before she leaves. When they're alone, he crosses to Jared and runs a comforting hand down his spine. “How you doin'?”

Jared gives up all pretenses and drops Rider's chart back into its slot. “Okay, I think,” he answers honestly, sighing a little bit as he sags against Jensen's shoulder. “She made most of her own arrangements before I got back into town, I think so I wouldn't have to do it.” His face twists when he says, “She didn't want a service or anything. They're just going to cremate her and call me when I can come pick up the ashes.”

Because he doesn't know how to respond to that, Jensen keeps his mouth shut and slips his hand under the back of Jared's shirt. He rubs his fingers over warm, taut skin and waits until Jared's shoulders square and he collects himself, never stepping away from the touch.

“We'd already started going through some of the things in the house, boxing it up for charity or just getting rid of it, so it shouldn't take me too long to get it ready to sell.”

Jensen is fairly certain that the finality in Jared's words is intentional. It stings, but Jensen tells himself that he means what he's been saying: if Jared decides to go, Jensen is going to be prepared for it. “I'll help,” he offers.

With a nod, Jared turns and leans against the wall. “I wanted to check on Rider before I take off, but then I'm gonna take some personal time the rest of the day.”

“Sam's makin' dinner tonight, if you wanna come with me.”

Jared's raised eyebrow isn't much of a surprise. “How about you come over after?”

Jensen nods and leans in for a quick kiss before he gives Jared the space to step away. When he's gone, Jensen lowers himself into the rocking chair beside Rider and wills his thoughts to slow down.

This kid, lying so still and small in this freakin' toaster, is a third-generation Brother, the first of his kind. It's not exactly a life of longevity, prison sentences and early graves doing a number on the propagation of their species. He's special because of that and the club will go to great lengths to protect this infant they see as their future king.

Not for the first time in the last week, Jensen looks at Rider and feels like he's connecting with his father in a way that he never did before. Jensen wasn't the first son; they lost his older brother, Josh, to a brutal case of pneumonia before Jensen was born. He finds himself imagining what it must have been like for his parents to actually take a baby home from the hospital, to sit awake while he slept and think about all of the things he could become.

A memory floats to the surface of his mind, one that he doesn't even remember conjuring. _His father was showing him how to replace the fairing on a bike at the garage. He was holding a wrench in one hand and gesturing with the other as he explained what he was doing._

_The rumble of the others' bikes reverberated under Jensen's feet before they rounded the corner and he couldn't fight the smile that always accompanied seeing them like that, like an army or something._

_His dad leaned over and rested a hand against Jensen's shoulder. “That's gonna be yours to control someday, little man,” he said, so close to Jensen's ear that Jensen could smell the cigar on his breath. “You make sure you stick close and watch so you avoid our mistakes and lead 'em in the right direction.”_

The other day, Jared said that shit doesn’t just change. _Someone has to steer it in the right direction._

This will be Rider's to control some day. The decisions that Jensen votes on now, the moves that this club makes today, are going to be Rider's mess to clean up in the future. For the first time, Jensen lets himself feel not only the desire for change, but the need for it. He just wishes he knew how to make it happen.

  


  


A week ago, when Jared’s mom had him boxing up knick-knacks and taking shelves off the living room walls to send to Good Will, he didn’t stop to think how ridiculously morbid it was. When she told him which of her clothes no longer fit her diminishing body, he wouldn’t let himself consider that he was giving everything to the women’s shelter because his mother was never going to use them again. When they cleaned out the kitchen and got rid of all the food she couldn’t digest and the cookware she couldn’t stand long enough to use anymore, he squared his shoulders and fought through whatever emotions threatened to creep up and take over his ability to maintain control.

Now it’s starting to sink in, though. The living room and kitchen are finished, most of the bedroom along with them. Boxes are piled in the garage and on the porch for the consignment truck to pick up in the morning, along with the furniture. By the time he gets home from the hospital tomorrow night, there won't be much left and it's nice, in a way, that she thought of all of this beforehand, but now it just feels like Jared is packing her away before her body is even cold.

It's nearly nine o'clock and he's reclined against the wall, surrounded by the contents of several boxes he found hidden in the back of his mother's closet an hour ago. Photographs and letters cover the floor in a thick blanket, all four boxes tipped and scattered, the history of a woman he never knew laid out in chaos before him.

Some of the pictures are familiar, or at least the memories of those times are. Others contain a much younger, happier version of his mother, one that Jensen mentioned and that Jared never met. It's surreal.

He hears the knock on the front door, hears Jensen call out to him, but the spare key is in the same place it's always been. Jensen can find his way in, since Jared is beer-warmed and marooned to his own little island amidst the ocean of memories and he couldn't really get up if he tried right now.

“Hey,” Jensen greets when he finally lets himself into the house and finds Jared. He strips out of his cut and his shoulder holster, setting them both carefully on the dresser, now void of all the perfume bottles and Jared's elementary school art projects. “What're you doin', huh?”

With a halfhearted shrug, Jared nudges the stack of photos closest to his foot with his toe. “Stumbling blindly down memory lane,” he answers, tipping a half-empty beer bottle to his lips. He lost count of how many he's downed in the last hour. “You look just like her, ya know?”

“Who?” Jensen asks, clearing a spot for himself and sitting near Jared's foot. He turns over a picture of his parents with Jared's mom and Jim and huffs a soft chuckle. “I wear less eye makeup,” he says quietly, fondly.

Jared nods and takes another drink. “Your jeans are looser, too,” he points out, casting a quick look to Jensen's face. “Damn shame, 'cause you totally have the ass for tighter jeans. Leather, even,” he muses because flirting with Jensen is easier than dealing with the rest of this.

Jensen rolls his eyes and leans toward the cooler to grab a beer for himself. “Nobody wears leather pants anymore,” he corrects. “Not all that comfortable for riding long distances and it makes ya look kinda gay.” He flips a picture around to prove his point.

If Jared hadn't already looked at those pictures earlier, he wouldn't have a clue that Jensen is holding a picture of his father and Jim and a few other guys from the club. “Yeah, but you are kinda gay, so,” he points out, winking lazily in Jensen's direction as he circles his tongue around the lip of his beer bottle. It would probably look more seductive if he appeared to have actual control of his limbs.

“Fuck you,” Jensen laughs, shaking his head as he returns his attention to the pictures.

“She wrote to him,” Jared says randomly and apropos of absolutely nothing. When Jensen looks up, eyebrow raised, Jared holds up the papers in his hands. “My mom. She wrote Jim all these letters after she broke up with him. I don't know if she ever sent any, but she kept a lot of them. It's like a journal, almost.”

The emotion springs up quickly and unbidden, closing in Jared's throat as he chokes on a few of his words. He met Jim a couple of times when he was younger, but he doesn't really know him. It's obvious, though, that his mother was so in love with the guy and it breaks Jared's heart to know she never got to have the life she wanted with him.

Before he can read any more, Jensen holds another picture up. “Holy shit,” he exclaims with a low whistle. “Best weekend of my life.”

Jared doesn't have to see the picture to know that he's referring to the three days they spent at some Harley convention in Dallas with some of the guys from the club. They slept in a tent, ate nothing but grilled meet, drank way too much, and had more sex than they'd had in the previous two and a half years combined. Looking back, Jared can honestly say that it was the best weekend of his life, too.

They broke up a month later.

That thought on top of everything else nearly sets Jared off and once the damn breaks, he knows he's not going to be able to rein it back in. Fortunately, Jensen still reads him like a children's story book so he tosses the pictures aside and crawls over the mess on the floor, between Jared's outstretched legs, until his mouth is pressed against Jared's ear.

“Had me so fuckin' hard that whole weekend.” His teeth clench around Jared's ear, pulling at the lobe while he growls from somewhere in his throat. “Could hardly ride. Shit, could hardly walk,” he says, dragging his open mouth along Jared's jaw and across his chin. “Made me so crazy. _Make_ me so crazy,” he goes on, point of his tongue traveling the column of Jared's throat.

They should stop, but Jared is finally ready to admit, at least to himself, that he doesn't want to. Instead, his fingers fumble with Jensen's belt until the buckle opens and he can easily thrust his hand inside the baggy denim.

“Get on the bed,” he orders when he can find his voice and Jensen does without question, kicking his jeans off when he stands. He tugs his underwear off and throws them onto the bed at his side before he sits.

Jared doesn't bother joining Jensen or even getting to his feet. He can feel years worth of letters and memories smashed under him, but he just pushes them aside to grip Jensen's knees and force them apart.

Immediately reaching for Jared's hair, Jensen tangles his fingers into a tight fist, making sure that Jared is right here and going nowhere. He hisses when Jared licks up the side of his cock and then lets out a strangled puff of breath when Jared circles the head with the flat of his tongue. If there's one thing Jared knows without having to think about, one thing that flows as naturally as breathing, it's making Jensen come.

The sounds Jensen makes are insane, secondary only to the rush that Jared gets from feeling this dick harden in his mouth, stretching his lips and falling heavier against Jared's tongue. He moans in spite of himself and Jensen tugs involuntarily on his hair, a litany of filthy praise falling incoherently from his mouth.

Desire bursts inside Jared's chest. He wants Jensen in him and on him and around him. He wants everything they used to have and everything they never had all at once. He wants to speed this up and get dirtier than his neat, orderly life has come to be and then slow it down and feel it all click back into place.

He pulls back, a thin string of spit connecting his bottom lip to the head of Jensen's dick. Jensen's eyes open slowly, a soft smirk playing on the corner of his lips. “C'mon,” Jared says, making his way to his feet while unbuttoning his pants. “Lube's in my room.”

Jensen doesn't wait for a second invitation, tripping over Jared's heels as they stumble into the hall and toward the stairs. There's plenty of time for Jared to sober up, to change his mind and come to his senses, to blame this whole thing on alcohol and grief.

He just strips his shirt over his head nods toward his childhood bed. The reasons stopped mattering yesterday; the last twelve years have been leading back to this anyway.

 

 

Jared wakes up alone again. Jensen's side of the bed is cold this time.

The light from the window stabs at his eyes, forcing a groan from his throat as he presses his pulsating temples hard against the pillow. There is a reason he never drinks like Jensen does, a reason he forgot in his rush to forget everything last night.

Determined to find some relief, he stumbles into the hall and down to the bathroom, blearily grabbing for an aspirin bottle. He had every intention of flushing her medication last night, but he got a little distracted. Maybe it's for the best. A painkiller certainly couldn't hurt right now.

He takes two and climbs into a hot shower, waiting for the water and the pills to ease his aching muscles and the pounding in his brain. He hasn't remained celibate by any means but Jensen treats sex like some kind of full contact sport. If they're going to keep doing this, Jared's going to have to brace himself for a few more rough mornings while his body adjusts to the rigorous routine.

It's not until he's dressed that he realizes he left his mother room a mess last night. When he makes his way down the stairs, though, he finds all of the pictures and letters sorted into four boxes on the top of the dresser. He can't help smiling a little at the thought of Jensen stopping to put all of this away before he left this morning.

A part of Jared wants to take them all out back and burn them, to just put all of her memories to rest at once and head back to Boston with a clean slate. Another part, though, can't bring himself to trash this side of his mother that he's only just now getting to know. The reasons she kept it from him, the secrets she never shared, the life she lived before Jared was a thought in her mind, they're all in these boxes.

Grabbing one of the letters from the top of the box, Jared leans a hip against the dresser and flips it open. August 12, 1999. The day before Jared left for school.

 

>   
> 
> 
> _When we ended our relationship, I told you that you can push people away, but if they love you, they never really leave you. I guess I'm about to find out if that's true or not. I didn't think I would ever love anyone as much as I loved you, but Jared is the world to me. Tomorrow, he's heading out East. If Jensen can't convince him to stay tonight – and we both know he won't – I hope he doesn't bother coming back. I know what it feels like to lose the person you love and to live with the ache every time you see his bike parked in front of a store downtown, or to hold your breath every time you see his flavor of the week shopping at the grocery store. He's smart enough to be a doctor and I want him to be smart enough to heal himself. A part of me hopes it goes the other way, though. A part of me really wants him and Jensen to get the happy ending that none of us got to have._  
> 

There's a second page to the letter but Jared's hands are shaking too hard, the paper moving too much for his eyes to focus. His heart hammers in his chest and he drops the letter into the box to hold tightly to the dresser. His breath is coming faster now and his brain his racing to figure out what in the hell is going on inside his body. Sure, the letters from his mother to her old, high school boyfriend are hard to read, but this reaction isn't emotional.

Something is physiologically wrong with Jared and panicking may not help, but it's an instinctive reaction that he can't exactly resist.

His phone is resting on the dresser between the boxes and he grabs it before making his way to his mother's bed and collapsing onto it.

“Hey, you.”

“I need your help,” he manages to croak, his tongue feeling swollen and dry in his mouth. “As quick as you can get here.”

 

 

“Can you hold this?”

Jared's skin still feels clammy and he's dizzy if he tries to pull himself to a seated position, but his breathing has returned to normal and his heart isn't hammering in his chest anymore. His vision is pretty much back to normal when he blinks at Genevieve, accepting the coffee cup she's offering.

The tea inside the mug is weak and just short of disgusting, but she rolls her eyes when he makes a face after one drink. “Oh, shut up,” she says, even though he hasn't said anything yet. She sinks to the couch at his side and pushes a sweaty strand of hair from his face. “You ready to tell me why you called me?”

She has every right to ask. Back in high school, before Jared knew what was up with Jensen, he tried to convince himself that Genevieve was a perfectly acceptable girlfriend. In this town, she was pretty much everything he could have hoped to score: smart, beautiful, respected and well-bred. She was everything Jensen wasn't. And she was absolutely right when she said _that_ was always going to be their problem.

“That painkiller I took killed my mother. Bottle said it was a low-dose opiod,” he stops and shakes his head because there was nothing _low_ about that dosage. One pill took him down for more than two hours. Jared is nearly twice his mother's size.

Genevieve nods and runs a hand through her hair. “You want me to look into it?”

More than anything, Jared wants to do the looking. He wants to figure out what the hell is going on and he wants to settle it himself. His brain won't let him rationalize retaliation, though. He decided a long time ago that vigilante justice wasn't his style, no matter how Jensen tried to convince him. Going back on that now feels like betraying himself somehow.

Genevieve heads down the hall to the bathroom and returns with a pill bottle. “The one from the counter?” she asks, eyes skimming the label. Jared nods and she gives him the smallest hint of a smile. “I'll go talk to her doctor, get in touch with the pharmacist, ask a few questions.” She hesitates before she asks, “You gonna tell Jensen about this?”

Her disdain for Jensen was pretty obvious back in high school; it's practically suffocating now. He doesn't need or want to understand her question. He just shakes his head in response. “Let's try it the right way first.”

Crossing to him, Genevieve ruffles his hair and holds the corner of his jaw in her hand when he looks up. “I'll figure out what happened, Jared, I promise. If someone is to blame for your mother's death, we'll find out who it is and we'll put that person away forever. You have my word.”

Jared nods and watches until she's nearly to the front door. “Gen,” he calls out, clearing his throat. She casts a glance over her shoulder and he catches her eye to say, “You find out somebody did this on purpose, you lock 'em up tight before you tell me about it. Because if I can get to him?” He's not aiming for melodrama and he's not issuing a threat. He's giving Genevieve his word in return for hers. “I won't have to call anybody to do my dirty work. I will kill him myself.”

 

  


  


In Jensen's mind, The Brits have always been this mafia-like organization with more money than credibility, a couple of slick kingpins with some mindless brutes to do their heavy lifting. When he thinks of Sheppard, he imagines him in pinstripes, with a pinky ring and a pimped-out cane, sitting on some high-backed chair as he commands his minions and counts his cash.

The fact that Sheppard is actually living in a suburban split-level just outside of town, not a mansion with a gate and perfectly manicured landscaping throws Jensen off just a little as he eases his bike to a stop in the driveway. There are a couple of guys casually lounging on the porch, security trying to look inconspicuous, but it's otherwise underwhelming.

“Can I help you?” One of the guys asks, cracking his knuckles in a way that almost makes Jensen laugh.

With a roll of his eyes, Jensen tucks his hands into his pockets and prays their shaking isn't visible. “Your boss home?” he asks as casually as possible.

Both guards shake their heads. “Not right now,” the knuckle-cracking one says.

“Gentlemen,” Sheppard says from the doorway, smiling cordially in Jensen's direction. “There's no need to lie.” Turning his attention to Jensen, he lifts his beer bottle in greeting. “Is this a business call, Mr. Ackles?”

Jensen shakes his head and flexes his fists in his pockets. “I have some questions.”

Sheppard eyes him suspiciously for a moment and then smirks as he nods his head. “Leave your guns at the door,” he orders, turning to retreat back into the house.

It goes against every instinct Jensen has, but he's not here to shoot anyone. He pulls the pieces from his holster and the back of his jeans and leaves them on the table next to the door as he enters the old house, shaking his head at the shag carpeting and the wood-paneled walls.

There are a couple of girls in tiny shorts, cuddled together at one end of the couch, some daytime talk show on the television. Faces he vaguely recognizes glower at him from the dining room table but Jensen focuses on following Sheppard down the narrow hallway to a room near the back of the house.

Waiting at the door, Sheppard lets Jensen pass into the empty bedroom and then closes the door behind them. He crosses to the window and takes another drink from his long-necked bottle before he says, “I've been looking forward to this day for a long time, son.”

Pulling the photograph he took from Jared's house out of his pocket, Jensen tosses it onto the window ledge and grits his teeth, unable to trust his voice right now.

Sheppard's eyes flit over the photograph and his lips twitch into a wistful grin. “It's been a long time,” is all he says for a moment, taking another drink while he studies the image before him. “Your father was a good man, Jensen. He had a good heart and pure intentions.” He chuckles and shrugs, looking back to Jensen. “Well, pure- _ish_. The problem with having a good heart is that it makes you sympathetic, vulnerable to being pushed around and manipulated.”

The only way Jensen is going to make it out of here without killing Sheppard with his own hands is if he remembers that he's here for answers. He's got plenty of questions; he doesn't need Sheppard raising any more.

He takes a letter from his hoodie pocket and tosses it on top of the photo, one of Jensen's parents and Sheppard thirty years ago. “Is it true?”

It's the only answer that really matters.

Sheppard reads through the letter slowly and Jensen runs his mother's words over in his head from memory, the words she wrote to Jared's mother a week after her disappearance.

 

>   
> 
> 
> _I know that it's like I'm asking for the world, but please look out for my baby. We tried to bring him with us but Sam is keeping him hidden and there's no time. I'll come back for him, you have to believe me, but until I can, I need you to watch out for him. Make sure he learns everything you know I wanted to teach him, that he learns to think for himself and to do what his father couldn't: make the right decisions for his family's safety and well-being. Make sure he follows his heart, as I'm following mine, and never let him forget that I love him more than anything in this world._  
> 

“There's not a day that goes by she doesn't think of you,” Sheppard's voice interrupts Jensen's recitation. “Waiting until the time was right has nearly killed her, I think.” He smiles again, fondly. “Took me a lot of promises and a hell of a lot of liquor to convince her to stay home until it's done.”

“Until what's done?” Jensen manages to ask.

Sheppard's smile is two parts amusement, one part something else entirely, chilling in its warmth. “Do you honestly think that I left my posh mansion over the pond to come slumming in the dust with your lot because I enjoy the humidity?” He laughs and it sounds harsh to Jensen's ears. “I came for you, Jensen. It's always been about you.”

Thoughts assault Jensen's brain from all sides: What is going on? What is Sheppard talking about? How does his mother fit into this? How does Jensen fit into it? What's his grand plan? Why does Sheppard look so goddamn happy right now?

Nothing adds up; none of it makes sense. “Cut the cryptic bull shit and let’s just get down to what exactly it is you want me to do and what angle you’re working here,” he says, feigning composure that is clearly doing nothing to fool Sheppard.

“I'll tell you what,” Sheppard offers as a counter, “Why don’t you go home, ask some questions from the people you actually trust right now. See if you can piece it together for yourself. I’ve waited this long, a few more days to let you catch up is nothing.”

What is he supposed to be catching up to? Jensen wants to scream or punch something; better yet, he’d really like to put a bullet between Sheppard’s eyes. Instead, he feels his head nodding in concession.

Sheppard walks Jensen to the front door, hands him the holster and both guns Jensen left there before, and then pats his shoulder. “Forget loyalty and family and everything else you think you know, son,” he says, holding Jensen’s eye with another one of those warm looks. “Look for the truth. Nothing more. Nothing less.”

 

 

As far as Jensen is concerned, there's no reason to trust Sheppard. There's no reason to believe that anything he said, no matter how vague, was remotely true. So why is his stomach turning at the thought of talking to the people he does actually believe in right now? Why is he afraid of the answers they may hold to questions he never even thought to ask?

When he left Sheppard's house, he thought he might talk to Jeff first, but now all he really wants is a few minutes with Rider to recenter and get a grip on his own emotions. Jeff's not really one to react well to tears or accusations, unless they're coming from Sam.

Jared is standing at the nurse's station when Jensen rounds the corner and his thoughts take another left-hand turn. Maybe the best avenue to take is the rational one, to get an outside perspective far more level-headed than his own. Jared will think it through, see things the way none of Jensen's other friends can, and he'll come up with a reasonable answer for everything.

Jared just lost his mother and he looks wrecked as he lifts his eyes and barely manages to smile at Jensen. Asking him for anything now seems like a shitty option, so Jensen aborts that plan, too. Instead, he only asks, “You okay?”

The smile breaks and Jared looks away, clearing his throat as he nods. “Rider's doing really well today, Jensen. It's lookin' like you may be able to hold him by the end of the week. Next week for sure.”

With a hand on the small of Jared's back, Jensen says, “Thanks,” and then tilts his head in the hopes of catching Jared's eye again. “Hey,” he says when Jared refuses to look up. “What's goin' on?”

The smile is so forced that Jensen hopes Jared doesn't expect him to believe it. “If I say that I'll tell you when I know more, can you accept that?”

It's a fair question. Jensen is kind of known for charging after his family's problems, guns literally blazing, even if those problems have nothing to do with him. It's just easier to shove his own issues away if he can focus on helping someone he cares about, but Jared seems so sincere that Jensen doesn't have the heart to push him.

“Yeah,” he nods, patting Jared's back before he takes a step back. “I'm here when you need me.”

He starts to walk away when Jared grabs his wrist. “You wanna grab some dinner tonight?”

It's the first time Jared's done the asking since they started whatever this is they're doing and, while Jensen isn't sure a steak and a beer is going to help him let go of today, it's a step in the right direction. With a nod, he says, “I'd love that,” and winks before he sets off toward Rider's room.

Of course, Rider has company when Jensen arrives.

“What's wrong?” Sam asks as soon as Jensen pushes the door open with his shoulder.

Dammit. She reads him too well, has known him for too long. There's no way he's going to be able to brush this off. Once Sam gets the scent of something bothering one of her boys, she doesn't let go of it for anything. If that boy is Jensen, the Rottweiler instinct is ten times as fierce.

“Went to see Sheppard,” he says, leaning back against the window.

Her eyes double in size, gaze snapping from Rider's incubator to Jensen's face in an instant. “Why would you do that?” she asks, voice icy and low.

Now that he knows something isn't right, Jensen feels his defenses rising. Everything he told himself, everything he imagined he could forgive on the ride over here, is sinking into his stomach like lead. “Why wouldn't I?”

“Those assholes killed your parents,” Sam answers, shaking her head.

Jensen can't help wondering if her acting has always been this bad and he just hasn't noticed, or if she's really rattled. “Did they? Because Sheppard seems to believe my mom's still alive,” he tells her, watching carefully as she clasps her shaking hands in her lap. “She wrote Jared's mom a letter, told her that you were hiding me and wouldn't let her take me.”

“I told you,” she hisses, catching a thumbnail between her teeth. “I told you he was going to be trouble, that he was gonna fuck everything up. Why the hell couldn't you just keep it in your pants?”

The reaction stuns him into silence for a moment, causing Jensen to brace his hands against the window ledge at his back for support. “What? How in the hell are you making this Jared's fault? He doesn't know about the letter. Hell, until I told him, he didn't know his mom ever had a connection to the club in the first place.”

If there's one thing Jensen knows after being married to a drug addict, it is that people will go to great lengths to hide the things they're ashamed of from the people who care about them. He lost track of how many times Danneel begged him not to leave, of how many times she asked him, in that heartbreaking voice of hers, to keep loving her. The stories she made up were ludicrous, but she was grasping at straws to hold on to something that she felt slipping away.

More than he wants to rewind time, more than he wishes he had never gone to see Sheppard this morning, that he'd never found that letter and those pictures at Jared's house, Jensen fears what Sam is keeping from him and the fear makes him angry. He can feel it boiling up in his gut, clenching his hands into fists under his arms, setting his jaw and drawing his body taut with tension.

One of the monitors next to Rider's bed beeps and Jensen drops his gaze to his son. Rider's little fingers twitch at his sides and he shifts his legs as though he's trying to kick the wire there away. Jensen doesn't know much about hospitals and he still feels like he's been thrown into the deep end without a life jacket when he thinks about the intricacies of Rider's condition, but he could swear right now that his tension is bleeding into that incubator.

“Hey,” he whispers, stepping forward to lay his hand over the glass. “Hey, little man,” he goes on, pushing Sam and everything else away while he forces himself to relax. “It's okay, buddy. Daddy's right here. You're alright.”

Rider stills and Jensen has to swallow the lump that rises into his throat when Rider's head rolls in his direction. It's not much – he still doesn't really open his eyes yet – but it's a response, one that nearly breaks Jensen in a way that no man twice his own size ever has.

“You were hanging out with Tommy and Chris that day,” Sam says, voice distant. “You stopped by the house for lunch and the guys got a call. Club business, and you wanted to go. That was all I knew. When she showed up, when I saw him in the driveway, I knew she was getting out. I couldn't tell her anything – she wasn't part of the family anymore.”

The twisted thing is that Jensen understands that. The painful thing is that it doesn't excuse anything. “You told me you didn't know what happened to her. You told me that nobody ever saw her after they found my dad,” he says, forcing himself to keep his voice calm for Rider's sake.

Sam nods and runs a hand over her face, her hardened facade melting into the sweet, maternal figure he's come to know over the years. “I used to watch your parents together and I used to think that they had everything I wanted Jeff and I to have. Their love was so real and so big that it was like nobody else could fit into the room with them when they were together. The way you love Jared, even after all this time and all the shit he put you through? You got that from her, I think. Only problem is that your dad loved the club like your mom loved him and eventually,” she stops and rests her hand over Jensen's on top of the incubator.

“Eventually what?” Jensen prods, feeling a little too hypnotized to say much more.

“We all have choices to make.”

The cryptic response hangs in the air and Jensen isn't sure exactly what he's supposed to say or feel right now.

Sam gathers her jacket from the arm of the rocking chair and kisses her fingers before pressing them to glass beside Rider's head. To Jensen, she says, “I know you're confused and you have a lot going on in that pretty little head right now, baby, but you remember this one thing: She's been gone twenty years and she's never so much as written you a letter. She made her choice and I made mine when I decided to keep it from you.” She raises up on her toes and presses a kiss to his cheek, her hand caressing the stubble against his jaw. “You look at that little boy and you think about which one of us loved you like a parent.”

Jensen watches Rider for a long time after Sam is gone, rolls the question around in his head, wonders if Sam has a point. Walking away from this kid, abandoning him to someone else, seems like the coward's way out, for sure. The idea of never seeing him again is physically painful. Yet, he can't deny that he's wondered about the effects that his sometimes-violent lifestyle will have on his son more than once. If leaving Rider in someone else's hands would insure his safety, would Jensen be able to do it?

According to Sam, Jensen's mom wasn't happy with the club or with sharing his dad's affection with it. In her letter, she said that she would be back, but Sam's right. Jensen's never heard word one from her. The possibility that she tried to reach out, that Sam intercepted a letter or phone call, occurs to him but Jensen can't bring himself to consider it for long.

She also said that she hoped Jensen would someday find the strength to do what his father couldn't: make the right decisions for his family's safety. The Brits have been in business for nearly as long as The Brothers. It's not as if she abandoned the life, but merely this life. What makes Sheppard's club, the life he offered her, any safer than the one they had here? What was the difference?

_I came for you, Jensen. It's always been about you._

The question is _what_ has always been about Jensen?

 

 

He didn’t mean to fall asleep at Rider’s bedside, but maybe there’s something to spending a couple of uninterrupted hours in solitude with his kid. Jensen’s head is still reeling with questions but his body is no longer thrumming with nervous energy. It’s not completely unlike that time he got thrown into solitary for fighting with one of the Bastards during his first trip to prison. This time he doesn’t have throbbing pain from a stab wound in his thigh, so maybe this is even better.

By the time Jared knocks on the door and lets himself in, Jensen feels a genuine smile tugging at his mouth. He scrubs his hand over his face and blinks lazily in Jared’s direction. “What’s up, Doc?”

The ghost of a grin flashes on Jared’s face before he says, “You turn your phone off?” Off of Jensen’s nod, Jared crosses his arms over his chest and says, “Tommy’s out in the waiting room, pissed as all hell that you’re unreachable.”

With a groan, Jensen pushes up out of the rocking chair and shakes his head, fitting his hat back over his matted hair. “Thanks for the heads up,” he says sarcastically, kissing Jared on his way out the door.

He was hoping to have some time to process the information of the day before he gets thrown into more club business, but what Jensen wants and what he gets are rarely the same thing.

Jared walks silently at Jensen’s side and that alone is enough to shove Jensen’s apprehension aside for the moment. Of course, once he rounds the corner into the waiting room, his heart ratchets right back up into his throat again.

Tommy and Misha are talking to Whitfield, while Genevieve stands by, looking as happy as ever. Something isn’t right.

When Jared takes off with Genevieve, his head bent to listen to whatever she’s saying, Jensen tries to ignore it. He knows they dated before he and Jared got together, but that was more than a lifetime ago. He wouldn’t put it past her to pump Jared for information about the club, but Jared doesn’t really know anything. It’s just his paranoia running rampant and Jensen needs to pull it under control.

“They got Chad,” Tommy says when Jensen joins the conversation.

“What? Who?” Just when Jensen’s thoughts were starting to slow, the Tilt-A-Whirl slams back into motion.

“Fuckin’ Brits, man,” Misha fills in the blanks, his head shaking slowly. “Jeff thinks it’s a message.”

“What kind of message?”

Tommy cracks his knuckles at his sides, bottom lip caught between his teeth as he fights for control of his own emotions. He was close to Chad, had taken the kid under his wing way back when Chad was still a prospect. He won’t let this go easily.

“Jeff went to see Sheppard yesterday morning, asked him about the ATF rumors and shit. Twenty-four hours later, Chad’s dead. Jeff says he’s exerting his control over this deal, letting us know who calls the shots,” Misha explains.

Jensen turns suddenly on Whitfield. “You gonna do somethin’ about this?”

Whitfield holds his hands up defensively. “I got no proof yet,” he says, eyes narrowing. “I’m just here to make sure you’re _not_ gonna do somethin’ about it in the meantime.”

Disgusted, Jensen shakes his head and blows past Whitfield on the way out of the room. He’ll figure out what’s going on with Jared later.

 

  


  


“Somethin’ ain’t right, brother,” Chris says, sucking hard against the end of his cigarette before flicking the butt onto the lawn. “It doesn’t add up.”

Jensen found him on the porch, fifth in one hand as he stared dazedly at the horizon. The only thing he was able to wrangle out of Jim was that Jeff took off with Demore about an hour ago. The clubhouse is eerily quiet, especially with Mike and Aldis inside, but Jensen hasn’t made it further than this seat out front yet.

“I mean,” Chris goes on, grabbing another cigarette from the pocket of his shirt as he kicks his feet up onto the railing, “We know Sheppard’s got his claws in the ATF, right? Why would they come lookin’ for him? And if he’s just gonna sell us out, why the hell would he deal with Jeff in the first place?”

“False sense of security,” Jensen suggests, though he’s no closer to an answer than Chris is right now.

If Sheppard is trying to exert his authority, then what was all that shit with Jensen this morning? How was it even necessary? And why would he kill Chad? Why wouldn’t he have just taken Jensen out when he had him alone in the house? What does control over the Brothers give him, anyway? He’s already got a pretty sweet set-up across the pond and if he wants to expand to the States, this one tiny strip of land can’t possibly mean that much to him.

Thrusting his hands into the pockets of his sweatshirt, Jensen runs his thumb over the photograph of his mom and dad with Sheppard back in the seventies. The answer is there, something that ties all of this together somehow.

Sheppard said that it was always about Jensen. If that’s the case, then Chad died because of him and Jensen will be damned if he’s going to let that go unanswered. He’s going to figure out what the hell is going on and someone is going to pay.

Jeff’s bike roars through the tranquil air long before it appears on the road approaching the clubhouse. His jaw is set and his helmet is off almost before the bike stops.

Jensen is barely on his feet by the time Jeff is charging toward him, face red and angry. “Where the hell have you been?” he demands, stepping so far into Jensen's space that Jensen can feel Jeff's stubble against his own cheek.

On instinct, he throws his palms up, pushing Jeff back until there's distance to breathe between them. Demore and Chris step in to hold them back, Chris grunting in Jensen's ear as Jensen struggles against him.

“I told you fuckin' with Sheppard was bad news. I fucking told you!” Jensen seethes.

“Alright,” Jim interrupts, stepping onto the porch to position himself between Jensen and Jeff. “You two gonna throw punches?” He raises an eyebrow and fixes Jensen with a look first before turning to give Jeff the same one. They both deflate a little, though Demore and Chris refuse to let go, and nod. “Think it's time we lay some shit out on the table.”

Jim walks away and Jeff shrugs Demore off to stalk into the clubhouse, leaving Chris to hold Jensen back.

“Man, get off me,” Jensen demands, swinging his arms until Chris takes a step back.

Chris wants to say something, but Jensen's not interested in hearing it. Instead, he heads into the clubhouse and directly into the chapel, where Jim is waiting in the doorway. As much as he doesn't want to talk about this, it's time for the truth to come out and Jensen's not going to leave until he's satisfied he has it.

“Sit,” Jim orders before Jensen has a chance to open his mouth.

Jeff is already fuming in his spot at the head of the table so Jensen drops wordlessly into his chair at Jeff's right hand and glowers at Jim. He would worry that he looks like a pouty little kid, but Jeff's got the same scowl on, so Jensen gives himself a pass this time.

“Me and your old man met Sheppard in a bar in Germany,” Jim starts. Jeff starts to interrupt, but Jim just shakes his head and rolls his eyes. “You listen to me, boy. You may be the president of this club, but you are not his father and you sure as hell ain't mine. It's time Jensen knows what happened back then.”

Jensen can't help following the line of daggers Jeff is shooting toward Jim and then the ones Jim is shooting right back. As hot-headed and impulsive as he can be, Jensen is not about to get in the middle of whatever is happening between these two at the moment.

After what feels like an eternity, Jim slowly tears his eyes from Jeff to focus back on Jensen. “I don't know what it was about him, seemed like any other dopey college kid to me, but your old man took to him like they were long-lost brothers or some shit. Came over to visit not long after we started the club, got really into the idea. We talked about starting a charter over there.” He smirks ruefully and tilts his head. “We had some differences in operating philosophies, though, so Sheppard headed home to start his own club.”

It explains how Sheppard got into the picture with Jensen's parents, but it still doesn't tell him anything. Pulling the letter from his pocket, he pushes it down the table to Jim and waits for him to read it, his heart hammering in his chest. Jeff is lighting a cigar and puffing toward the ceiling, almost as though he's bored with this trip down memory lane. It makes Jensen want to punch him in the head.

“He came back,” Jeff finally says when Jim doesn't continue with his tale. “You were ten, I think? Eleven. Somethin' like that. We were all the same at the core – mayhem and anarchy – but he did it by securing a hand in the pocket of Interpol. Said he knew some people with the fed here, too. Filled your old man's head with all this shit about doin' whatever he wanted without consequences if you just grease the palm of the man.” He shakes his head in disgust and blows another thick plume of smoke.

It goes against everything the club stands for and Jensen has a hard time believing that the father he remembers would even be courted by such an idea. The vague whisper of a memory starts to surface in the back of Jensen's head.

_“Climbin' in bed with the ATF or the FBI is never gonna be a good idea,” Jensen's dad was saying in the living room._

_Every time his dad raised his voice, Jensen found himself tensing up. He crept down the hall, intent on stepping in if things got too heated. Nobody could tell him that, at ten, he wasn't going to make much of a difference._

_“Think about your family for a second, please. He's not asking you to betray your club or even stop what you're doing. He's asking you to be smart about it. Stop thinking with your pride and start using your head for five minutes. Please.”_

_His mom sounded so desperate, so terrified, that Jensen nearly revealed himself at that moment. His dad's voice interrupted him._

_“It sounds good, doesn't it?” He chuckled sarcastically. “That's because it is. It's too fucking good to be true. You don't fuck with the feds. You never win when you fuck with the feds. You know that. Don't let his money and his damned accent fool you into thinkin' this is ever gonna go our way.”_

_Jensen didn't know who they were talking about; at the time, he didn't care. As soon as his mom said, “Yeah, you're probably right,” he slipped back down the hall and into his room to play another video game. He was sure that everything was going to be alright._

But it wasn't. Clearly, it wasn't. His mom never actually let go of the idea that it was safer to do things Mark's way. That's what she was talking about in the letter, about doing the safest thing for her family.

Except she left Jensen behind. Of all the information he's taken in over the last few days, all of the puzzle pieces scattered around in his mind, that's the one that keeps coming back. That's the one that screams for his attention.

“He thought about it. For damn near two years,” Jim says when Jensen drops his head into his hands, elbows propped up on the table. “Your old man thought about patching over. Had all the specifics worked out and everything. He was gonna agree to the merger, as long as both clubs kept the Brother's name and he and Sheppard were leaders on their own continents. Help each other expand, start other charters, but never step on each others' toes.”

“Told us it wasn't up for a vote. He was makin' an executive decision.” Jeff stamps the butt of his cigar against the ashtray on the table. He's staring at the logo carved into the middle of the table, head shaking just slightly. “I begged him not to do it, told him we were good here, doin' our own thing. There's risk, there's always been risk in dealing guns, but it was better than checkin' over our shoulders for the fed every other day. Jim talked to him about it, too.”

Jim nods in affirmation, lifting the bill of his hat to scratch at his hairline. He's always been old to Jensen, but he doesn't usually look that old. Now he just seems worn out and broken down.

“We boycotted,” Jim goes on to explain. “The day it was supposed to go down, we refused to be here. If your dad was gonna strip this club down to the studs, he was gonna do it himself. But ol' stubborn ass Morgan over there couldn't stay away. Had to make one last ditch plea.”

Jensen's heart rises into his throat. They're talking about the day Jensen's dad died, the one thing Jeff has never told him about the club's history, the one thing he's always said Jensen doesn't need to know. Jensen leans forward, hanging intently on every word that's about to come out of Jeff's mouth.

Jeff sighs and offers Jensen a withering grin. His eyes are no longer angry, but sad and wistful. “I don't know what happened. I don't know if Sheppard turned on him or if your dad changed his mind. He was already dead when I got there. They were tearin' outta here like their tires were on fire or some shit, your mom on the back of the bike.” He shakes his head and lights another cigar. “If I'm bein' honest, I'd say it was an accident. Sloppy shot that hit him in the throat. Sheppard's a better marksmen than that.”

For twenty years, Jensen has heard stories about what heartless bastards the Brits are, how they shot his father in cold blood, six times in the back, how it was the culmination of an already vicious feud between them and the Brothers. No one ever told Jensen any different; no one bothered to let slip an ounce of the truth. His instinct is to believe they didn't want him to know that his father was a traitor, but his gut is telling him differently.

“Sheppard said he's here now because of me,” he says. Maybe they've been lying to him forever, but Jensen's not about to betray his own code of ethics to return the favor.

Huffing a sarcastic half of a laugh, Jeff shakes his head. “Was Jim's idea to send you out that day, have your runnin' errands, keep you as far away from all this shit as possible. Sam knew somethin' was goin' down, but she didn't know what. Didn't know your dad was dead. Fuckin' saint that she thinks she is, thought she was doin' the right thing by the club.” For the first time, he really meets Jensen's eye and stares at him hard. “This club is your birthright, son. You were part of the family the day you were born and you will be until you make the choice to walk away.”

“Sheppard knows that,” Jim interjects. “Pretty sure he knew it back then, too. When he didn't use all those fancy connections of his to get you back right away, shit started becomin' real clear.”

The pieces are starting to click into place, but Jensen doesn't like the image that's emerging in his head. “I'm not the president,” he says dumbly.

As Vice President, Jensen is more of a figure head than anything right now. He's respected and the guys listen to him, but his vote is only as weighted as any other guy in the club. He's not in charge of anything; he can't help Sheppard right now.

“You will be if my ass ends up in a federal prison for life,” Jeff answers quickly. “Told me yesterday if I don't abdicate my position, it's not him the ATF's gonna be comin' to find.”

“But I would never,” Jensen starts, fists grinding into the table. “He's not stupid enough to think I'd turn on my own club.”

Jim grimaces and shrugs his shoulders. “Thinks you might, if he isolates you enough.”

Confused, Jensen starts to speak and then snaps his mouth shut again when someone knocks on the door. Mike pops his head into the room, eyes darting around the room before he focuses on Jensen. “Cortese's here to see you.”

Jeff snorts. “What the fuck does she want?”

Mike just shrugs, eyes averted until Jensen rounds the table and follows him out of the room. He closes the door behind them and asks, “You alright, man?” with one hand heavy against Jensen's shoulders.

What a fucking question.

“Dude, I have no idea,” he answers as honestly as he can as he sees Genevieve leaning against her squad car, looking less than comfortable in the Brothers' front yard. “Good to see ya, Gen,” Jensen winks, faking an unaffected swagger that falls embarrassingly flat.

She doesn't bother looking charmed or amused. “I lost Jared.”

The first thought that flits through his head is, _I know. I blew him right after he broke up with you._ Somehow, Jensen doubts she stopped by to take a stroll down memory lane right now, so he keeps his mouth shut and lets her explain.

“He had this fucked up theory that somebody switched his mom's medication out to kill her, so I followed the hunch and locked up some douche from Speight's crew who paid the pharmacist to switch the pills out. He says it was on Speight's order, but I can't touch him 'cause this idiot has a perjury charge on his record and his testimony won't stand.”

_“You should be thankin' me. Got your junkie bitch wife outta the way so you suck the good doctor's cock in good conscience.”_

Jensen was livid when he found out that they had gone after him through Danneel and Rider, but the idea that anyone would try to get to him through Jared's mother makes his blood boil. He doesn't even want to think about what Jared might do with this.

_”She didn't hurt anyone, ever, and I want someone to pay for what happened.”_

His stomach sinks. “Why the hell would you tell him any of that?”

“Honestly?” Genevieve clears her throat and slides her hands into her pockets. “I was hoping he'd come here to have you do his dirty work.” She shrugs as though this is perfectly reasonable. “Thought I could get you and Speight in one fell swoop.”

Jensen shakes his head. “Jared's a good guy, but he's not exactly a stranger to a fight here and there,” he points out. She has to know that; Jensen remembers her giving both of them a ton of shit when Jared busted Chad Lindberg's front teeth in eleventh grade, as if Jared had no mind of his own.

All Genevieve says is, “He's not you, Jensen.”

She doesn't have to spell it out for Jensen know that she means Jared's not a killer. He's not the kind of guy who's going to be able to exact final revenge and walk away from it. He could argue that she doesn't know Jensen like she thinks she does, but what's the point? She's not going to believe that he's never killed anyone, either, so it seems like a moot point.

Still, she's right. If Jared finds Speight before Jensen can find Jared, Jensen is going to lose Jared forever. He won't come back from something like that.

 

 

Jensen spends the drive to Speight's production lab praying that Jared has no idea how to find this place. It's the first time he's ever been glad to see that tiny fucker, kicked back on the porch with a joint in one hand and a forty in the other, laughing with his crew about who the hell knows what.

“I should put a fucking revolving door at the driveway for all these fuckin' visitors I'm getting lately,” Speight jokes jovially.

Shit. “Where'd he go?” Jensen demands, his patience already tenuous at best.

“Who?” Off of Jensen's look, he smiles wider and shakes his head. “Oh, you're talking about your sex ass doctor who came by to kill me in the face for selling his mom some dirty shit. Right.” Leaning forward, he rests his elbows on his knees and tilts his head curiously to one side. “What makes ya think I didn't shoot first and bury his gigantic body in the back yard?”

“Because you're not that stupid.”

Speight laughs like Jensen's just paid him some sort of compliment. “You're right,” he says, standing and passing his joint off to one of his guards as he rolls his shoulders. “Dude's huge – possibly bulletproof – and I like my pretty face like it is.”

Jensen reaches for his gun and grunts when Speight tracks the movement before holding his hands up in front of his chest. “One more time,” Jensen warns.

“Told him what I know, man. Nothin' personal – just business. He paid me ten grand and I did the job. I didn't ask why.”

“Sheppard,” Jensen spits, bile rising in his throat at the lengths the damn Brits will go to get what they want.

But Speight just shakes his head. “You really think Sheppard is dumb enough to think killing the people you love is gonna endear him to you?” Speight tucks his hands into his pockets and laughs. “The doctor really is the brains of the operation between ya, isn't he? Didn't take him this long to figure out who has a vested interest in keeping you tethered to your damn club.”

_“This club is your birthright, son. You were part of the family the day you were born and you will be until you make the choice to walk away.”_

“No,” Jensen says, eyes clenching shut as the truth settles deep in his gut.

To his credit, Speight keeps his mouth shut and actually looks remotely apologetic. It's almost enough to make Jensen shoot him on principle, but he remembers that Jared is out there right now with a head start on this knowledge.

He doesn't bother saying good bye as he turns and jogs toward his bike, grabbing his phone from his pocket on the way.

“What's up?” Chris answers on the other end.

“I think Jared's on his way to the clubhouse,” Jensen says, straddling his bike as his heart hammers an erratic rhythm in his throat. “Keep him away from Jeff until I get there.”

“What? Why?”

“Just do it,” he barks. “And don't let him fuckin' shoot anybody!”

 

  


  


The gun in his hands used to belong to his mother, hidden at the back of the closet with the other memories of a life that caught up to her before cancer could. It was more than poetic justice, going back to the house for it after he left the police station. He figures Genevieve wasn't too thrilled to find him gone when she finished that interrogation and, if he knows her like he thinks he does, she's going to Jensen to figure out where Jared went.

Jared hasn't fired a gun since he and Jensen spent hours at the shooting range back in high school; he was pretty good back then, but he can't take anything for granted now. He's probably only going to have one shot so it has to count; he has to be sure.

Like everything else in Jensen's never-changing life, the targets stand in the same field where Jensen taught Jared to do this nearly fifteen years ago now. That first time springs to his mind unbidden.

_”You might wanna hold it with both hands, cowboy,” Jensen laughed while Jared assumed his best bad ass pose. “Kickback,” he added with a wink._

_Jared didn't even know what that meant, just assumed that Jensen was being his usual, cocky self, and squeezed the trigger. He promptly learned that _kickback_ meant nearly punching himself in the face with the gun._

_Once he finished nearly laughing himself onto his ass, Jensen sauntered up behind Jared and slid one hand over Jared's hip. “Try it again,” he said, biting playfully against Jared's jaw. “With both hands this time.”_

_His hands were already shaking from the vibration of the shot and Jensen's hands all over his summer-heated skin weren't helping to steady him much. “I got it,” he assured Jensen, rolling his shoulder in an attempt to create some space._

_“I know,” Jensen said against his ear. “But you're so goddamn hot with that piece in your hand.”_

It was probably ironic back then that a guy like Jared, a guy so uncomfortable with the outlaw lifestyle, was so damn good with a gun. His aim was better than Jensen's, his accuracy spot-on. He never figured it would matter beyond bragging rights in this field.

As he lines up his shot and empties a clip into the bull's eye, Jared can't help thinking that maybe his momma was right; maybe everything in the past was leading up to this all along.

 

 

By the time he leaves Speight, Jared's thoughts are spinning fast enough to make him dizzy. He pulls over to the side of the road and pushes the door of the truck open with his shoulder, gulping humid, desert air until his lungs burn with it.

Maybe Morgan knew about his mom's involvement with members of his club before his time. Maybe he knew that she was talking to Jensen about it after Jared left. Maybe he was trying to keep her quiet.

Or maybe he, like Sam, thinks that Jared is a distraction that should just fuck back off to Boston and leave Morgan's VP alone. As much as it turns his stomach, Jared knows that's the truth. They could have just as easily shot Jared at some point, but they went through his mother, tossed her aside like an inconvenience.

He'd like to believe that Jensen is smart enough to realize that this was all leading back to him, that this family and the loyalty they cling to only stretches as far as their own personal interests. They went after his wife and child before they started on Jared and his mother. They have attempted to strip everything that matters away from him.

Everything Jared has seen, though, points to Jensen choosing them anyway. Rider and Danni lived. Jared's not a stable part of his life. When everything shakes down, when all of the choices are made, Jensen will go his way and Jared will be left to go his own.

Going after Jeff Morgan is a suicide mission. Even if Jared gets a clear shot and takes him down, the brothers will kill Jared before he hits the end of their property line. If they don't, Jared will never be able to live with the weight of what he's about to do.

At this point, Jared's pretty sure it's worth it.

 

 

By the time Jared composes himself and drives over to the clubhouse, he's eaten too much time. Jensen takes a hard left into the parking lot just ahead of Jared's right-hand turn, jumping off of his bike as Jared is hopping out of his truck.

“Well, look who's the king of motherfucking timing,” Mike greets with a grin, tossing a wrench onto the ground next to the bike at his side.

Jensen answers him with a gruff, “Get inside. All of you.”

Mike, along with Tom, Chris, Aldis, and Misha, do as their told without question.

“Go home,” Jensen orders, turning on Jared with a face that says he's not even remotely kidding.

Jared doesn't give as easily as the others did, though. “I can't.”

Stepping into Jared's personal space, Jensen grabs both of Jared's wrists and holds his stare with a pleading look. “Let me take care of this. Please.” Jared raises an eyebrow in doubt and Jensen's face softens a little. “Jared, they will kill you.”

“I don't care.” It terrifies Jared how intensely he means that right now.

As though he's personally offended, Jensen takes a step back and says, “Yeah, well I do. This is a club matter and I'm gonna take care of it without losing you, too.”

“How?” Jared demands, his heart hammering in his throat.

A part of him keeps cycling through the fact that this is Jensen, the only guy Jared's ever really held more than a passing fascination for, and this could be the last conversation they have. Another part, though, is so infuriated that he can't give a shit about the past or the future.

“My mom wasn't a part of your club, Jensen. _I'm_ not a part of your club. The fucking anarchist in you wants to believe that your little band of merry men is all that matters, but there are innocent families out here who love each other just as much as you guys do and their deaths matter just as fucking much as yours do! This is your fucking fall-out and you're not going to do anything about it, so I am.”

Jensen puts a hand on his chest and holds the other palm up. “Gimme your gun.” Jared squares his shoulders and shakes his head. “Jared, don't fuckin' make me take it. Just gimme the goddamn gun and let me take care of this.”

Taking a step back, Jared throws his arms out to his sides. “All you have ever done is talk about change. You never _do_ anything. For twenty years, you've been talking about how you have to give shit time to change, but it's such a fucking load of shit. You're never gonna have the balls to do what needs to be done.”

“Oh, and you do?” Jensen's eyes light up, the fire rising in his tone as he shoves Jared with both hands. “All you have ever fucking done is run away. You think you're so goddamn smart, but you're fucking transparent as shit, Jared. Things don't go your way, you bolt. What in the fuck would you know about change when you'd rather take off than work on making a good fucking thing work?”

“This isn't about us,” Jared explodes in response. Jensen has always loved distracting Jared when he doesn't want to either talk about something or acknowledge that he's losing an argument, but this is too important. “Don't you fucking turn this shit into a metaphor for our goddamn relationship. This is about the fact that your fucking family, the one you think is so loyal to you, has been using you as a bargaining chip your whole goddamn life and you can't fucking see it!”

He can see Jensen balling his fists in his peripheral, but a scuffle at the front door draws his attention long enough for Jensen grab Jared's arm and pull him in, grabbing the gun from the back of Jared's jeans.

“Trouble in paradise, gentlemen?” Jeff's voice sounds from the doorway.

On instinct, Jared starts to charge toward the face of the man he came to see in the first place, but Jensen has a firm grip that he tightens behind Jared's back to hold him in place.

“Need you to answer a question for me, Jeff,” Jensen says over Jared's shoulder. “You been makin' deals with Speight under the table?

Most of the guys seem surprised, though Demore doesn't look all that fazed and Chris clears his throat to say, “Why don't we take this inside, 'stead of airin' our dirty laundry for the neighbors to hear?”

There are no neighbors out here, but Jared doesn't point it out because Jensen leans in and gives his arm another tweak. “You keep your mouth shut and let me handle this, you hear me?”

Flexing his hand against Jensen's hold on instinct, Jared checks to make sure that nothing is sprained or broken before he grunts; anything more feels like a concession of defeat. Jensen lets him go and Jared rotates his shoulder. It's not that bad, but it doesn't hurt to let Jensen know that he can't be fucking around with a surgeon's hands.

Jensen barely notices, though; he's already halfway to the clubhouse.

 

  


  


Careful to keep his body between the club and Jared, Jensen looks at his brothers and wishes to hell he had more time to plan this out. It's not exactly the kind of thing he should be half-assing.

“Jensen, sit down,” Chris says when paces forward and back aimlessly, fighting to collect his thoughts.

Instead of answering him, Jensen zeroes his focus on Jeff. “I want the truth.”

Crossing his arms over his chest, Jeff leans back against the bar, the entire club positioned between them like a conflicted front line. He's so secure in his position, so untouchable, so arrogant.

“Am I the only one that wants to know what in the holy hell is going on around here?” Aldis asks when Jeff doesn't jump to defend himself against Jensen's accusatory tone.

Jensen can hear Jared shifting behind him but all he can do about that is trust that Jared's going to do what he promised outside. He reaches blindly behind him, as though his one waving arm is going to stop Jared from doing anything he really wants to do, and then shakes his head.

“You hired Speight's crew to sell that hit to Danni. You knew she couldn't say no once she had it, that she would take it, that it would probably kill her. Told 'em to take out Jared's mom, too, while they were at it.”

“Oh, come on,” Misha rolls his shoulders and his eyes. “That's ridiculous,” he chuckles, the sound dying in his throat when he notices Jeff's not denying anything. “It doesn't even make sense.”

“Sure, it does,” Jim interjects, tilting his head and swallowing back half a tumbler of whiskey. “Sheppard's in town. Wanna keep Jensen from makin' the same mistake his old man almost made, you gotta make sure his loyalty is to the club. Ain't that right, Jeff?”

Jensen honestly can't tell if Jim's just putting the pieces together or if he knew about this all along. He's not exactly an open book when it comes to his emotions. Still, the picture that's starting to form is one Jensen would like to never look at again.

For long, uninterrupted minutes, Jeff looks at his guys, each of them, until they look back at him. When he speaks, he addresses everyone but Jensen.

“Sheppard didn't come to Texas for the barbecue. He came to finish what he started twenty years ago. This club has always been the one thing he wanted that he couldn't have, and he doesn't take kindly to not getting his way.” To Jensen, he says, “You don't agree with the calls I've made, fine – I get that – but every decision I have made since the day I patched into this club has been about what's best for the club.”

In Jeff's eyes, Jensen sees the subtle warning. _Don't overstep here. Think about what you're doing. Consider the long-term consequences of your actions on this club._ It's the same look Jensen's been seeing since he was twelve.

That one look is all it takes to snap Jensen right back to that time, back to when he was confused, scared, fatherless, and angry. He remembers in an instant what it felt like that day, standing in the kitchen while Sam rubbed comforting circles against the small of his back and Jeff patted his shoulder, promising him that he wasn't going to be alone, that his family was there for him. He remembers the smell of Jeff's cologne when he ruffled Jensen's hair and told him everything was going to be okay.

More than that, Jensen remembers needing so desperately to cling to something, anything, that felt stable. He didn't question Jeff because he needed to believe that everything Jeff was saying was true. He didn't worry about the things that didn't add up because he wanted them to fall into place; he wanted resolution and closure and all of the things he didn't have a name for yet but that he felt, bone deep.

The same thoughts are racing through his head now as he watches Jeff across the chasm between them, as he realizes that he wants Jeff to deny everything. _Tell me it's bullshit and I'll believe you. Tell me everything you taught me while I was growing up, everything you raised me to be, wasn't just some club obligation or some strategic manipulation and I swear to god, I'll believe it._

Jeff doesn't say anything. In fact, he squares his shoulders and crosses his arms over his chest, strong in his confidence that he's done nothing wrong.

“Is that why you shot my dad?” Jensen doesn't know where the words come from, but they're pouring from his mouth as the picture zooms into focus in his mind. “Was that what was best for the club? He didn't want what you thought was best so you killed him? Pinned it on Sheppard? Told everybody he was already dead when you got here? Is that your idea of sacrificing for this club? Just getting rid of everyone who doesn't agree with you?”

The thoughts are assaulting Jensen so quickly, they throb against his temples: Jeff making a deal with Sheppard while Speight was getting rid of Danneel and Rider; Jeff filling Jensen's head with just enough of the truth to placate him while sewing new seeds of doubt to turn him further against Sheppard; Jeff seeing the reunion between Jensen and Jared and sending Speight out to once again tie up a pesky loose end.

“What about Chad?” Jensen asks. “Was he just collateral damage, too? Or did you have a reason for killing him?”

If Jensen is honest, he has no idea if Jeff killed Chad. For all he knows, Sheppard really is the monster Jeff has been making him out to be all this time. It's not often Jensen's gut steers him wrong, though.

Slamming his hand against the top of the bar, Jeff curses loudly and yanks his sunglasses from his head. “You are just fucking like him, you know that? I tried, fuck knows I tried, to talk some sense into his fool head but your fucking whore of a mother meant more to him than his brothers did. Even when she started fucking Sheppard right in front of his fucking face, he couldn't see who had his back.” He points toward Jared and adds, “You're about to do the same fucking thing!”

“Son of a,” is all Jensen manages to growl, reaching for his gun.

“Whoah!” Chris shouts a warning, holding both arms out. “Calm the fuck down, both of you!”

Aldis manages to reach Jensen in a blink, grabbing his arms and holding him back while Demore steps in to restrain Jeff on the other side of the room.

Jim's lips are moving, but Jensen can't hear what he's saying past the rush of blood pounding through his head. He's too busy tallying Jeff's body count to pay attention anyway.

Aldis squeezes Jensen's bicep, jolting him back into the present just in time to see everyone staring at him. “Ball's in your court, brother. What do you want?” Aldis says without letting go.

Jensen grits his teeth and says, “I want his cut.”

For a biker, the cut is the embodiment of everything. The colors, the design, the patches carefully hand-stitched onto the leather, it's all the physical manifestation of the club. Surrendering it is equivalent to Jeff willingly giving up his membership. It leaves him alone, a proclamation to every enemy he's ever made that no one is protecting him now. Jensen has never seen anyone voluntarily surrender his cut.

“You'll have to peel it off my cold, dead carcass,” Jeff spits, struggling against Demore's hold.

Tom cracks his knuckles and says, “That can be arranged.”

“Jesus Christ, Tommy, stand the fuck down.” Chris pushes off the pool table and nods toward Jim and Demore. “Lock him up in the vault.” To Jensen, he says, “Take your guard dog home and don't you fuckin' think about comin' back through that door until you get the word from me, you understand?”

The vault is a secure bunker below the clubhouse, originally designed as a storage space for illegal contraband and later renovated into a cell of sorts for the guys they needed to keep around for leverage. It locks from the outside and once Jeff is in there, he won't be able to get to Jensen.

“Fine,” Jensen concedes, pulling himself free of Aldis' grip and storming out the front door. He hears Jared follow but Jensen doesn't look back.

This is it.

“What happens now?” Jared asks, leaning against the porch rail at Jensen's side. He's considerably calmer than he was, which helps to calm Jensen in some ways.

Sighing, Jensen blinks and tries to collect his thoughts. “They'll talk about it, try to figure out the best move, and then they'll vote. Either Jeff's out and I become President or Jeff stays and he kills me. Maybe not today or tomorrow, but he'll get to me.”

Jared huffs. “How the hell are you so nonchalant about that? I don't understand the way you think, the way you shrug off death so goddamn easily.”

Of course Jared doesn't understand it. His mission, his calling, is saving lives on a daily basis. He hasn't seen the things Jensen has seen, hasn't grown desensitized to blood and violence. He stares death in the face and finds a way to defeat it. All Jensen's ever done is brace himself to surrender when his time comes.

“You should go back to Boston, Jared,” he finally says, though the words pain him and nearly stick in the back of his throat. “This is who I am, who I'm always gonna be. Doesn't matter if I never fire a kill shot myself, ya know? I can't be some regular Joe mechanic. I told you this life is good enough for me, but man, I'm never gonna be good enough for you.”

Jared gapes in disbelief. “You piss me off more than anyone I have ever met, you know that? You accuse me of running away all the time and then you turn around and push me in the other direction. How the fuck am I supposed to figure this out when you change your mind every thirty seconds?”

Jensen pushes off the railing and steps into Jared's personal space, hands resting against Jared's waist. “Jeff was right, Jared. I'm just like my dad. He turned on his club for my mom and I just did the same goddamn thing. It was stupid and reckless and it might get me fucking killed, but so help me, I made a choice and that choice was to protect you from them. I've never, not once in my entire life, opposed them like that for anyone. I haven't changed my mind about a damn thing, but I can't keep apologizing to you for who I am.”

Jared is good and noble and honest; Jensen knows that and he accepts it – hell, maybe he even loves him more for it. But Jensen is who he is - loyal and reckless and fiercely protective – and if Jared can't give him the same acceptance in return, no matter how badly Jensen wants to beg him to stick around, it's better for him to leave.

Before Jensen can pull away, Jared grabs Jensen's face and kisses him. It's not hard or branding and it doesn't feel like possession or passion. With a slow roll of Jared's tongue and the slightest pressure, it feels exactly like the last goodbye kiss Jared gave him twelve years ago.

“I gotta get outta here,” is all Jared says before he walks away, leaving Jensen to watch him until Jared’s truck disappears from sight.

 

 

Jensen considers going after Jared for nearly an hour. At the two hour mark, he straddles his bike and starts toward the hospital to say goodbye to Rider. He’s seen meetings last longer, but his ass was never on the line in those meetings and he can't sit around and wait for the verdict.

He spends the next hour circling the desert outside of town on foot, wondering if he's doing the right thing or if he even knows what that is anymore.

He's at a gas station three towns over, wondering how badly his choices today – and for the last twenty years – are going to fuck Rider over when he gets the call from Chris.

Answering the phone is terrifying, especially when Chris croaks, “Vote was unanimous,” in a pained voice that Jensen's only heard from him a few times in the past. “Find yourself an alibi for the next couple days, okay?”

Numb to his toes, Jensen falters and leans hard into the side of his bike and lets the full meaning of those words wash over him.

If Jeff was still in, Chris would have asked what Jensen wanted to do next, if he wanted to go nomad – a technical member of the club without a charter home – or maybe try to stick around and take his chances.

But Chris didn't ask him that.

Jeff's made a lot of enemies from his place at the head of the Brothers' table. He's not going to last forty-eight hours without the club's protection. Whether it's a mercy killing by one of the Brothers, or a hit from a rival crew, Jeff's going to die. As the president-elect, Jensen has to keep his nose clean of that.

When he woke up this morning, sweaty and satisfied next to Jared, he would never have believed that this is how the day would end.

Clearing his throat against the rush of emotions he can't begin to sort right now, Jensen says, “Send Tommy and Jim home with him tonight. Sam can decide where she wants to go, but she's gotta get her ass outta town as soon as she can, you understand me? I don't care what she says, you make sure they get her out of here.”

“You sure you don’t wanna tell her yourself?” Chris asks, his tone softer now, as though he’s trying so valiantly to straddle the line between lieutenant and friend.

Jensen thought about calling Sam all day. He thought about making amends or telling her that he doesn’t blame her for all of this. The thing is, he doesn’t know if that’s the truth. She may have known everything; it’s possible she knew nothing. It hurts to send her away, almost as much as it hurts to think about Jeff, but Jensen can’t deal with her right now. Once his thoughts and emotions are in order, he’ll reach out to her but until then, this is for the best.

“Tell 'em to make sure she knows I love her and I'll call her when I can,” he says, keeping it vague as he fishes his keys out of his pockets.

Chris mumbles an agreement and asks, “What are you gonna do?”

Honesty may not be the best way to go here, but if Jensen is going to change the way they do things, he’s going to have to put a stop to all the secrets.

“I'm gonna find a hotel tonight, pay with a credit card, and try to get some sleep. I'll talk to Sheppard tomorrow.”

Nonplussed, Chris nods. “You want back-up?”

Though he’d probably feel more comfortable showing up at Sheppard’s place with his entire crew at his back, Jensen says, “I’ll be fine,” and hopes that it sounds more convincing than it feels.

 

 

If Sheppard is surprised to see Jensen, he doesn't show it. The way he tilts his watch and shakes his head mostly just pisses Jensen off; twenty years of loathing disgust don't just dissipate in twenty-four hours.

“I heard about Morgan,” is the first thing Sheppard says, dragging his eyes away from the soccer game on the television to risk a glance in Jensen's direction. “I'm guessing this isn't a social call.”

Jensen crosses his arms over his chest and leans against the wall near the door. He didn't come to trade pleasantries. “What do you want from me?” he asks, jumping straight to the point.

Sheppard reaches for the remote and kills the power on the television before he pivots on the couch and takes another long drink from the bottle in his hand. “You are so much like your father,” he finally says, his eyes smiling though his lips are not. “You have a pure love for this life, for everything that goes with it, but the spilled blood and the callous death gets to you more than you let on, doesn't it? You'll fight for what's yours. Hell, you love a good fight, but you care more about standing up for your family than the thrill of the kill, isn't that right?” He doesn't wait for Jensen's confirmation; Jensen's pretty sure it's written all over his face anyway. “Let me see if I can put this into a metaphor you might understand. Is there anything you wouldn't do for Rider, Jensen?”

“No,” Jensen answers without hesitation.

Sheppard nods knowingly. “Anything you wouldn't give him?” When Jensen shakes his head, Sheppard goes on. “Even if what he wants most in the world is a gun just like yours before he understands what that means? Obviously, you wouldn't buy it for him.” He takes another drink and tilts his head. “But what if he got his hands on one anyway? So bound and determined to get his own way that he went out and found one himself and decided to play with it anyway? What would you do then?”

Jensen doesn’t need Sheppard to spell it out for him. Sometimes it’s not about standing up for the club; sometimes it’s about standing up _to_ the club. Being the leader is about figuring out what’s truly best for them, even if they feel like it’s restrictive or unnecessary. Jensen’s father couldn’t say no; Jeff didn’t want to say it. Jensen has to before the entire club implodes.

“It’s not gonna happen right away,” he finally tells Sheppard, tucking his hands into his pockets. “I go in there right now, in the state we’re in, and demand a patch-over? They’ll kill me, too. Give me some time to explore the options and figure shit out.”

What he’s really asking is for time to decide whether or not he actually believes that Sheppard is any more reliable than Jeff was. He needs to figure out for himself who the villain really is, or if there’s one at all.

“One year and then I want an answer. Either we join forces, or we go to war.”

Jensen nods and takes a step forward. Sheppard stands and shakes his hand, pulling him in for a hug that rattles Jensen more than it should. He half expects to take a knife to the gut, and he’s more than a little disconcerted by the kiss to the cheek that Sheppard gives him instead.

Awkardly, he nods and heads for the door when Shepherd calls him back. “I meant it before when I said your mother misses you.”

On the list of people Jensen isn’t sure he can trust, his mother is sitting right at the top. He has a million questions for her but not one that he’s ready to ask. With one hand on the door frame, Jensen meets Sheppard’s eye and shakes his head. “She’s knows where to find me.”

 

  


  


Jensen looks surprised when he pulls the door open to find Jared standing on his front porch this morning. To be honest, Jared is a little surprised to be standing here.

He's spent the last week thinking about what Jensen said in front of the clubhouse the day of the vote, hiding in the office when he sees any of the Brothers in the halls at the hospital and then heading home to lock himself away from the news that travels far too fast in a town this size.

Jeff was found dead two days after he was ousted from power; from everything Genevieve has told him, Whitfield is still trying to piece together what happened and who might be at fault. The fact that there are so many suspects scares Jared because Jensen is the president of the Brothers now – officially voted in just before Chad's funeral three days ago – and it's going to be his head bearing the bull's eye now.

This is Jensen's life, so far from Jared's in every possible way, but Jared can't make himself drive away without a backward glance. Every time he thinks about loading up the car and pulling out, his body rebels against the action, feet like lead weights while his heart hammers in his chest.

“I was on my way to the hospital,” Jared stammers, though the blue scrubs he's wearing probably make that pretty obvious.

“This is nowhere even remotely close to 'on the way to the hospital' from your place.” Jensen's words are full of vinegar, closed off and shut down. He's ready for Jared to leave and he's bracing himself for the impact. Last week, he said Jared was transparent, but Jared can't help wondering if Jensen knows just how easy he is to read sometimes.

“Yeah, I,” he stops and runs his hand through his hair, “I stopped by Jim's first.”

At that tidbit, Jensen's eyes grow wide. “The fuck for?”

“Well, I had this box full of letters, all addressed to him. I thought maybe he should have them.”

It was a strange confrontation, Jared telling Jim that his mom had written all these letters and Jim saying that he didn't want to be Jared's old man. Jared laughed, which probably didn't help, and then assured Jim that he wasn't looking for anything. He just thought maybe Jim should know that Jared's mom never stopped loving him, even though Jim pushing her away was probably the biggest mistake he'd ever made. Then Jared felt a little guilty when Jim started to tear up, took the box, and slammed the door in his face.

“So I guess this is the next stop on the goodbye tour, huh?” Jensen asks, interrupting Jared's train of thought. “Before you head to the hospital to drop off your resignation?”

Jensen is standing here like always, jeans riding so low on his hips that his belt barely keeps them up, shock of white boxers sticking out of the top. He's shirtless and stretched out, hands gripping the top of the door frame, his hair sticking out in a million, sleep-mussed directions. His attempt to appear unaffected just looks really fucking sexy and Jared wishes he would stop it so they could have an actual conversation.

“Actually, I just came over to tell you that I'm takin' Rider out of the incubator in a few hours and I thought you might wanna come hold your son, doucheface,” he fires back with no real heat.

In an instant, a myriad of emotions flash over Jensen's face; he goes from surprised to confused to excited and back to stoic in about three seconds. “Thanks for the heads up,” he says, voice wavering a little when he pulls his arms in to cross them over his chest. “I'll head over as soon as I get out of the shower.”

He wants to play it cool here, but Jared has to get to work and Jensen isn't going to make it easy for him, so he just says, “I hear the vote went your way.”

For the first time, Jensen's expression softens. Jared can see the regret in his eyes; the issue with Jeff is never going to be one that Jensen celebrates or brags about. He'll never fully believe that he wasn't responsible for ripping his family apart, will never assert that Jeff made his own decisions and had to lie in a bed of his own making. It's certainly not the kind of day he's going to tell Rider about years from now.

“Yeah,” Jensen says, eyes fixed on his bare feet.

Jared nods and swallows the anxiety rising in his throat. “Look, you said a lot of shit that made me think the other day. I do run away from the shit that scares me, when it's not easy. This thing with you and me freaks me the fuck out, Jensen, because how the hell does it work, man? We are total opposites in every fucking way and I don't know what to do with that.”

Jensen's eyes are cold as he stares at Jared, unwilling to give an inch. If Jared didn't know him, if he hadn't heard the words Jensen said about turning his back on his family for Jared, this might go a different way.

Instead, Jared steps forward and shakes his head, watching Jensen take an instinctive step back into the house. “You also said that you're never going to be good enough for me, though, and that was total bullshit. You have always been the ridiculous standard that I hold everyone else to, even when you infuriate me and I don't understand you. That hasn't gone away in the last twelve years and it's not going to if I head back to Boston.”

For a hint of a second, Jared sees what he thinks might be hope on Jensen's face, his expression softening a little as he unfolds his arms and slips his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “So you're staying?”

Adopting Jensen's nonchalant shrug, Jared says, “When I said you didn't have the balls to do what you always said you were gonna do, you proved me wrong. Figure it's time I prove I can stick around and see if this thing works.”

“Because you wanna prove me wrong, too?” Jensen challenges.

Jared just shakes his head. “Because I love you, you asshole.”

 

 

Jensen has done some stupid things in his time, put himself into no-win situation and looked like a total tool on more than one occasion, but Jared has never seen him looking as jittery and nervous as he does right now, dressed in a pair of hospital-issued scrubs, rocking back and forth in his seat while Jared unhooks Rider's tubes and lifts his fragile body from the incubator for the first time.

“You're gonna drop him if you don't calm down,” Jared warns with a pointed grin.

Jensen flips him off and then returns his eyes to the bundle wrapped in blankets that Jared is lowering toward his arms. Rider weighs four and a half pounds now; Jared's pretty sure Jensen has guns that weigh more than his child.

“You ready?”

“Just shut up and give me my kid,” Jensen demands, laughing when Jared transfers the bundle into Jensen's arms.

Rider immediately huffs and rolls toward Jensen's chest, burrowing into the blankets until he's molded directly against his father's warmth.

The tears spring unbidden and Jensen lets out a chuckle of awe. “Hey, little man,” he says, his words choked with emotion.

If Jared thought that waking up next to a naked Jensen was the coolest feeling in the world, he's rethinking that now. Watching Jensen with his son, so open and vulnerable and loving in a way that he will never be with anyone else, is breath-taking.

“I'm gonna give you guys some time,” Jared says, running a hand over the top of Jensen's head before he turns to duck out of the small nursery.

“Wait,” Jensen calls out. “Don't leave.”

They're the two words that Jared has always wanted to hear Jensen say and, even if the context isn't exactly as Jared has imagined it, he couldn't move now if he tried. “I'm right here,” he promises, hovering near the door to give Jensen as much privacy as he can.

“Christ, kid,” Jensen laughs again, sniffling as his attention returns to the baby in his arms. “You got no idea the crazy life you're in for. Gonna be so far up your ass, you're gonna wish I'd leave you alone. But I won't. Always gonna have your back.”

Rider doesn't look like Jensen or Danneel – he's still too small to resemble anyone – but he's beautiful just the same. His eyes flutter open, catching on Jensen's, and Jared balls his hands into fists at his sides in an attempt to stunt his own emotional overflow. He's cried enough of his own tears over this kid; nobody needs to see them.

Jensen spends the next half hour telling Rider about the Brothers and about Jared. He tells him all of the good things about Danneel and when he talks about Sam and how much she loves Rider, he has to stop long enough to collect his own voice before he can move on. Between anecdotes and promises, he punctuates each whispered _I love you, kid_ with a kiss and Jared can't help wondering if Jensen even remembers that he asked Jared to stay.

The last thing Jared wants to do is interrupt this bonding moment, but they have to avoid over-stimulating him for the time being. Pushing off the wall, he asks, “You ready to put this guy into a real bed?”

The crib is actually a nothing more than a wide plastic box, but Jensen can touch his son whenever he wants, so Jared considers it a monumental victory.

“You gonna hang out for awhile?” he asks Jensen when he's hooked Rider's tubes back into all of his monitors. Technically, this isn't Jared's job. He promised Jensen that he would look out for Rider, though, and Jared takes that promise seriously.

Sinking back into his chair, Jensen nods and props his feet up on the ledge at the bottom of the crib. “Got nowhere better to be,” he says on a soft, content breath. “You?”

There is nothing Jared would like more than to hang out with Jensen and Rider for the rest of the day, but since he's staying at this hospital, he needs to do some actual work. “I have to go prep for a surgery.”

“Dinner?”

“Maybe? I'm on call for the next twenty-four. Lunch tomorrow?”

Jensen looks a little dejected, but he nods. “I think that'll work.”

“Hey,” Jared says, catching Jensen's eye and shooting him a grin, “We've got time, right? We'll figure it out.”

 

  


  


Jensen surveys his crew, sitting around this table and looking worse for wear. Maybe they haven't been through the same cycle of emotions that Jensen has in the last week, but they've taken every hit and absorbed it in their own ways.

Chris looks like he hasn't slept at all; it's likely that he hasn't. Jim and Demore look like they've aged fifteen years in the last seven days. Misha and Aldis are just dazed, as if they still don't know what's going on most of the time. Mike's eyes are crazier than ever and he's been itching for a fight since everything went down; keeping him reined in isn't going to be easy.

“Votes are in,” Jensen announces, the weight of the gavel still heavy in his hand. Maybe he'll get used to it someday. “Vice President, Chris,” he nods to his right where Chris now sits in the chair Jensen abandoned. “Demore, you're the new lieutenant,” he adds, bringing the gavel down to punctuate his decision.

The guys stand to file out, issuing their congratulations to Chris and Demore on their new positions. They'll fire up the grills tonight and party like there's no tomorrow, like everything is evening out, even though Jensen knows they're miles from normal still.

At his left side, Tommy sits with his head in his hands. Of all the guys, Tommy scares Jensen the most. He's shit-faced even now, drunk off his ass since Chad's funeral, and Leah called Jensen last night in tears because she's scared they're going to lose him over all of this. Jensen said all of the things that the president is supposed to say, but Tommy isn't just a Brother; he's Jensen's best friend.

“You okay, man?” he asks, leaning over to rest a hand on Tommy's shoulder.

He shakes Jensen off and then nods. “What're we doin', man?” he asks, words slurring and blending into a nearly-incomprehensible mess. “I mean, what am I doin'? All this blood on my hands. I don't know anymore.”

“You want out?”

Tommy looks startled by the question. “What? No,” he answers, head shaking. “Just wanna go back to what it was.”

“Hey, look at me,” Jensen says, dipping his head to catch Tommy's eye. “It can't be what it was, okay? But maybe we can make it better, man. Maybe we can do this the right way.” He reaches out and rests a hand on Tommy's wrist, his heart breaking at the ache evident in Tommy's watery, red-rimmed eyes. “You and me? We been shakin' shit up since we were kids, man. We can fix this, I promise you.”

Tongue skimming his lips, Tommy seems to consider it, though Jensen doubts he'll really remember this conversation later. “You really think so?”

It's a loaded question but Jensen has to believe it. The only way he's going to be able to turn this sinking ship around is if he believes that it can be done. “I do.” With a pat to Tommy's arm, he says, “Go home, man. Take some time. Take a fucking shower,” he teases with a smile. “Sober up, hug your kids. Fuck your wife. We'll be here when you get back, alright?”

Tommy stands on unsteady feet and falls against Jensen's shoulder, hugging him until Jensen is sure they're both going to fall over. He makes it out the door and Jensen catches Mike's eye long enough to nod. Mike steadies Tommy with an arm around his shoulder; he'll make sure that Tommy makes it back to his family this afternoon.

When Jensen is left alone in the chapel once again, he slips back into his chair and leans back, allowing himself to think about the work he has to do in the coming days and months, the healing and the searching and the answers he still needs to find.

As daunting as it is, Jensen has to admit that this feels right. It feels like he's right where he was always supposed to be as his father's words echo in his ears: _That's gonna be yours to control someday, little man. You make sure you avoid our mistakes and lead 'em in the right direction._


End file.
